Between the Lines
by frakkingblerg
Summary: Everything is good, until it goes bad. Angst warning, friends.
1. Prologue

**TW: Alcoholism, verbal abuse, grief, mourning. **

_Addiction (n): The fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity. Can refer to a physical and/or mental addiction and is not limited merely to alcohol and/or drugs. _

Sobriety, meetings, falling off the wagon - don't tell him this, don't drink that, not while he's around. Did I do something wrong? Is today the day he'll fall apart?

Brenda Leigh Johnson had experienced more than her fair share of pain throughout almost 48 years. From pedophiles to serial murderers, she'd seen the worst of the worst, unable to shield herself from the pure evil lurking around almost every turn. But nothing had prepared her for the utter chaos that'd quickly become her life. Here; Los Angeles, Fritz, Goldman, Terrell Baylor - every decision being questioned, constant supervision, always one breath away, one misstep from a lawsuit or some sort of disciplinary action.

It'd taken almost everything she had to continue working, even getting out of bed became a chore. If only she could go back, just for a moment, and erase some of those mistakes that'd seemed so insignificant at the time. But if the City of Los Angeles wouldn't prosecute, how could she ever truly serve justice to her victims? She'd merely picked up the slack. Honestly, they should be thanking her, not assigning her babysitters, second-guessing every confession she acquired, taking credit for successes she'd so rightfully earned. If the lawsuit hadn't nearly broken her enough, Mama's death had nailed the coffin shut.

Weeks had passed and yet she was still unable to shake herself out of the haze, the fog that'd so easily settled - clouding her vision and what little good judgment she had left. The world lost color, turning muted shades of grey and black. Going through the motions, life beyond this grief - the darkness - no longer seemed necessary. Turning inward, she became a shell of the strong, vibrant, stubborn Chief who usually walked the halls of Major Crimes. Everyone had all but disappeared, walking on eggshells, attempting to keep their distance. Of course, initially they'd tried to talk some sense into the woman, encouraging her to share the demons that now resided so firmly in her conscious. But ever the Johnson, she'd shut everyone out, preferring to process in her office, amid candy that never talked back, never demanded an answer to the questions she couldn't even begin to understand. What had Mama wanted to say? How would she move on? When would things actually get better?

Eventually, she was forced outside - she couldn't hide behind her office door forever. Late at night, while Fritz slept peacefully, completely unaware of the internal turmoil his wife was currently experiencing, she'd visit her other friend Merlot. Always the pushover, Agent Howard allowed this pity party to continue well beyond the standard window of grieving. Although, was their really an expiration date on grief? A window of time that was considered socially acceptable before it began to border dangerously close to a full-on obsession?

Yes, Fritz had been a good sport. Allowing his flailing wife time, giving her the space she seemed to demand. Two months later, they'd become really great roommates. With each passing day, they drifted further. Soon AA meetings were coming up almost nightly, Brenda finding herself alone, nursing a gallon of ice cream and her fourth glass of wine. The few times they did interact, feelings usually escalated and full-on blowouts became the norm. Fritz couldn't understand where his wife had gone, how she'd so quickly turned into a skeleton of the woman he'd once loved. Intimacy ceased, Brenda constantly shooting him down, even when he practically begged. After a few too many "no's", he started to let her know, in no uncertain terms, exactly how she'd ruined his life. How worthless and pathetic she was. And soon, with everything else piling around, she began to believe she was truly unlovable.

He'd also started drinking…


	2. Chapter 1

Amid the early morning quiet, that annoying ringtone could be heard throughout a house that'd started to feel more like a prison than a home. While Brenda hadn't exactly been asleep, the blaring phone had jarred her into full consciousness. Reaching for the guest bedroom nightstand, she couldn't help but let out a sigh. Why hadn't she fought harder for ownership of the master bedroom? Well, that was easy – she hadn't wanted to sit through yet another argument with Fritz. Instead she'd given in, resigning herself to an uncomfortable, 30-year-old bed. The back pain she'd acquired over these past few weeks paled in comparison to whatever insults the Agent would have most likely heaped upon her if she'd put up a fight.

"Chief Johnson," the blonde clipped sourly, blindly answering her phone and praying it wasn't Pope, or worse. Hopefully whatever this was would turn out to be rather open and shut, giving her ample time to continue evading sleep. After all, it wasn't like anyone besides her team made a habit of 4am chats.

"Sorry to wake you, Chief. But we've got a situation." Gabriel had drawn the short stick, forced to break the news of an early morning case to the recently volatile blonde. While none of the guys ever particularly enjoyed disturbing Brenda, the last month had been an absolute nightmare. They'd resorted to drawling straws (or keys, blades of grass, really whatever was lying around), no one ever wanting to be that guy.

"What kind of situation, Sergeant?"

"Dead store clerk, dead drug dealer, FID, and a swarm of FBI Agents," he recited in one breath, hoping she'd save her indignation for the actual crime scene instead of unleashing over the phone. "I'm surprised you weren't awake already, with Agent Howard being here…"

"Send me the address, I'll see y'all in a bit." Rubbing at the tension rapidly forming in her head, she hoisted her legs over the bed and groggily padded toward the guest bathroom. One quick shower later, she took a moment to examine the reflection staring back at her. Those once lively, bright brown eyes looked dull, sunken in. She noted the lines that seemed to appear overnight, probably from a lack of sleep and almost horrifying personal upkeep. Any halfway intelligent, self-respecting adult knew that meals consisted of more than cake and a few glasses of wine. These last months had aged her, worn her down, and no amount of makeup seemed to cover up the havoc she'd wreaked on her body.

And now, as if things weren't bad enough, she'd be forced to play that all too familiar professional game of pretending she and Fritz were just fine, a loving husband and wife, still Chief Johnson and Agent Howard, co-conspirators and collaborators –fighting the bad guys together. As if that act wasn't enough, she'd also have the early morning pleasure of _that woman_. Who always seemed so put together and sharp, no matter the time or place. Sharon probably never had a bad day and most likely went home to 2.5 beautiful children and a husband who worshiped the ground she walked on. Sharon - who'd fought for her when no one else had, surprising the Deputy Chief most of all. For once, during that particularly awful lawsuit, it'd almost felt like the blonde had found a friend, someone who understood. But life got in the way, as always, and soon after their shared Goldman victory, they'd drifted apart. Sharon returned to her life as Captain Raydor, perfect Head of FID. And Brenda soldiered on, trying to keep her head above water, pretending to still have her life together. Occasionally they'd pass each other in the hallway, or made eye contact over beers with their respective squads. But their interactions remained distant, although much less hostile, and the blonde soon forgot how much she'd relied on the older woman for those few tumultuous months. Every once in a while, usually after a particularly hostile interaction with Fritz, the younger woman briefly considered calling the Captain, knowing she always seemed to have the answers. Sharon was composed, cool under pressure, surely she'd know how to fix things. But they weren't friends. Brenda didn't have friends, as Agent Howard reminded her on a regular basis, because she was too difficult, too unlovable. Maybe he was right…

Sharon finished her interview with Detective Zach Jennings in record time; everything seemed rather cut and dry. Responding to a 911 call, he'd stumbled upon two men, guns drawn, screaming outside of a convenience store. It hadn't taken much for things to escalate – one man taking off while the other shot off a round, halting his forward progress and effectively slaying the (now ID'd) clerk. Jennings had tried to talk the shooter down, giving him the opportunity to drop his weapon and come downtown alive. But when the gun was pointed at his face, it'd taken only a split second to make a decision. Jennings' victim was identified as a Mr. Martin Wright, a low-life, local drug-dealer who'd also been tagged by the FBI. Apparently he was part of a large, multi-state trafficking ring. Only moments after the Captain arrived, Agent Howard and his goon squad had pulled up and actually attempted to shut down her investigation. A few choice words later (after all, Captain Sharon Raydor _always went first_) everyone appeared to being playing nice in the sandbox. Although the brunette couldn't help but notice something was off with Fritz. His normally smooth, self-assured demeanor was nowhere to be found, replaced with an edgy, short tempered attitude she'd never experienced. She couldn't be sure, but she'd noted the faintest hint of alcohol on his breath. Of course there was no actual way he'd fallen off the wagon, Chief Johnson would never allow that. And she knew how seriously the Agent took his sobriety, catching more than her fair share of conversations between he and Flynn surrounding local meetings and sponsorships. Perhaps he'd gone out earlier with friends? Offered to be the designated driver? She was probably just over exaggerating. And yet, something seemed off…

Descending onto the crime scene in a fit of sheer frustration, Brenda took a moment to digest the chaos in front of her and mentally prepared a plan of attack. Obviously Agent Howard would be no help, she immediately noticed his rather disheveled appearance and disgruntled face. Instead she opted for the lesser of two evils and briskly cut across the parking lot toward FID's tent.

"Cap'n Raydor," chirped the blonde, shooting the older woman her most genuine smile.

"Chief – glad you're here, I've got a few things we should go over. Although I'm surprised you didn't come with Agent Howard…" Oh shit, she'd noticed. Once again Brenda found herself floundering for words, trying to explain away their obvious tension to yet another inquizative (and frankly nosey) member of the LAPD.

"I – uh- he was out with some friends, didn't wanna wake me if he didn't have to," drawled the blonde, looking down, attempting to hide the obvious lie. Unfortunately Sharon had become all too familiar with the younger woman's mannerisms, especially when trying to deceive others – she could tell the Chief was covering something up. It was hard to miss her rapidly shrinking figure or the dark circles, even masked by all that hideous floral and dark makeup. Sharon felt a sudden pang of guilt, or perhaps understanding, at the lost, fragile woman in front of her. But as much as she wanted to pry, or at least offer a semblance of comfort, they weren't friends. In fact, she wasn't sure exactly how to define their shaky, sometimes combative, tolerance of each other. No, she'd leave that up to Brenda's squad, the boys who worshiped the ground she walked on and wouldn't hesitate to lend a helping hand if need be. For now, she'd focus solely on the investigation. The Captain would give one hundred percent, perhaps take a little pressure of the overburdened blonde.

8 hours later, they weren't much further from where they'd begun. Provenza scratched his head, tipped his chair, and stared at the white board in front of him. Jennings had shot Martin Wright for obvious reasons – pointing a gun in an officer's face warranted a use of force to some degree. Things became a little shaky once you factored in the dead convenience store clerk. Who'd for the most part, kept out of trouble since entering the country a few years back. With no criminal history or prior arrests, he couldn't place the exact reason behind Wright's violent outburst. And than there was the FBI's darling, Mr. Travis Ross, the drug king pin who they were so desperately interested in speaking to. Ross knew Wright, they'd placed several calls to each other over the last few months. But now their big fish was nowhere to be found. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. And if the pieces of this puzzle weren't confusing enough, the Chief had all but begged Captain Raydor to lead their follow-up interview with Jennings. In fact, over these past few weeks, her terrible mood had begun to creep into cases. While some of the younger guys enjoyed the opportunity her now lackadaisical attitude was providing them, especially when honing their confession skills, the long-in-the-tooth Lieutenant was growing more concerned with each passing day. It wasn't like Chief Johnson to hand over the reigns, essentially giving her team the ability to do as they pleased without constant supervision. When it came to important things, of course, she still pursued suspects with that blind fury and victims got 110% of her time and attention. But it was those little, usually insignificant things that she'd once monitored that now fell solely on the shoulders of her subordinates.

Rounding the corner in a fury, Brenda zeroed in on her target. With the smarmy grin and tailored blue suit, she practically growled in frustration. "Agent Howard, my office!"

"Let me remind you, Chief Johnson, that I don't report to you," he responded coolly, nodding to his fellow Agents who were staring with slack jaw expressions. Yeah, he'd show her who was boss.

Shooting him her best shit-eating grin, she continued, pronouncing each word with purpose and a slight hint of disdain. "Let's try again, Fritzie. Will you pretty please grace my office with the pleasure of your presence?" She scrunched her nose and gave him a sidelong grin, knowing full well he wasn't often able to resist her charm. And she was laying it on, thick.

Once he'd crossed the threshold, the blonde slammed the door, flicking the lock and closing the blinds in a few swift, practiced motions. No need to allow her team or the Agent's frat boys (because honestly, that's all they were in her humble opinion, a ridiculous fraternity posing as legitimate officers) the privilege of seeing this inevitable argument.

"Where is Travis Ross?" Brenda met his gaze, a challenge in her stare. She'd just gotten off the phone with Sánchez. Imagine his surprise when he and Tao had shown up to Mr. Ross' last known residence and stumbled upon a full on, FBI take down.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Bren. And I don't appreciate that tone…"

"Save it, with both know you're lyin'. What else are you lyin' about, Agent Howard? Where were you last night?"

"A meeting, than coffee with my sponsor."Fritz looked away, not able to meet her glance.

"Lyin' again. Unless you've been makin' a habit of goin' out to the bars with your AA friends."

"You don't know what you're talking about…"

"Wanna bet? Don't think I noticed your little stutter step at the crime scene? I'm thinkin' that didn't have much to do with you losin' your balance - you'd prolly just had a little too much earlier that night. Or maybe it was the whiskey bottles I found in the tool shed last week? It's really hard to know these days…"

"Fuck you, Brenda, you know nothing about what I'm going through. Maybe if you actually gave a shit about someone besides yourself, people would stick around, they wouldn't have to resort to drinking to make life bearable around you."

Clipping into the murder room, Sharon could hear the sound of muffled yelling. Thanking the Lord above she wasn't on the receiving end of one of Brenda's infamous tirades, she deposited the bag of evidence Provenza had requested hours ago. Bracing herself for one of his ridiculous, dramatic speeches about the complete lack of professionalism in FID, she was surprised when he gave her a curt nod and buried himself back in paperwork. As if on cue, Brenda's door flew open, Fritz sprinting toward the door as the Chief called behind him. Everyone froze, unsure of how to proceed after this rather unceremonious and out of character outburst. And just as soon as it'd begun, Brenda flung her oversized black purse over a shoulder and stalked out of the murder room without so much as a goodbye.

Two hours and three glasses of Merlot later, the blonde slowly began to feel more like herself. Well, maybe not so much like herself, but she did feel exponentially calmer. After a quick cry in the car, she'd called Gabriel and admitted she needed the afternoon off, feigning a headache and upset stomach. It wasn't as if she'd planned on hitting the bar on the way home, her car had just sort of ended up here. What was the harm in having a drink or two? It wasn't like she had anywhere to be or anyone to go home to.

Swirling the dark liquid in the glass, she took a moment to reflect on exactly how she found herself here, at the local dive, on a Monday afternoon. She hadn't meant to be quite so honest with Fritz, not yet anyway. But he'd started exploiting her weaknesses and it'd all come up, like some sort of verbal vomit, and she couldn't seem to help herself. In that moment, she'd felt so raw – she'd wanted nothing more than to hurt him as much as he'd constantly been hurting her. Of course he wasn't the only one wrong in this horrible situation, she'd done her fair share of damage. Emotionally checking out after Mama's death may not have been her best-laid plan. But honestly, how could he possibly understand? How could anyone understand? Always pushing her to talk, blaming her when she couldn't put together the words fast enough for his liking, it was too much pressure. She'd fallen into a pint of Ben and Jerry's and somewhere along the way, he'd fallen back into handles of whiskey. They'd lost each other, the love, support, friendship that had been their solid foundation for so many years. And as much as she wanted to leave him, move somewhere (maybe someplace warm with drinks that had tropical names and cute umbrellas), start over – she believed in those vows she'd recited in front of God and her parents. Mama and Daddy had given her a free pass after her first marriage began to crumble, she couldn't risk letting them down again.

"Can I buy you another?" Brenda was pulled out of her introspective haze and allowed her eyes to settle on the man in front of her. While a little older than she normally found attractive, he had incredible green eyes and an endearing smile. Why not one more, just for fun?

Sharon soon found herself twirling pen for the better part of thirty minutes, willing the clock to hit 5pm, desperate to get out of her dark office. Hopefully she'd have enough time to fit in an evening run before it got too late. At exactly 5:01, she made her final rounds, congratulating her team on another successful investigation (Officer Jennings had been essentially cleared in a little over 14 hours) before heading toward the parking garage. Mentally cataloguing her refrigerator, the brunette soon realized she be eating frozen waffles and a container of cottage cheese for dinner. She really needed to make more time for the store, and her kids, life in general. But all that could wait – she'd celebrate a relatively tame shared investigation with Major Crimes with some terrible, MSG laced, Chinese take out and her favorite green tea sorbet. Pulling into a local take-out favorite, she recognized that unmarked, silver Crown Vic with the rather obvious dent in the back bumper. Sharon remembered that day well…the Chief had been pretty upset with the way the Captain had denied her access to a crime scene. The older woman would have given her the opportunity to review evidence once they'd catalogued everything. But ever the drama queen, the blonde had huffed off and proceeded to ungracefully back into a light pole before peeling off the scene. Sharon had stifled a laugh at the time, attempting to maintain some semblance of professionalism when it came to that hurricane of a Deputy Chief. But now, in the safety of her own car, she allowed herself a quick chuckle at the absolute absurdity of that entire case. And if she was being honest, their relationship in general.

Brenda was spinning, everything seemed a bit blurry, and she'd passed her limit about two drinks ago. Now she was stuck, forced to sober up amid the early evening crowd of pseudo professionals and recently out of class college kids. Why had she ever agreed to another drink? Rummaging through her purse, she felt that horrible cardboard box and headed for the door. Once outside, she took a seat on the curb, allowing the afternoon sun to warm her face. With a quick flick of her thumb, she lit a trusty Camel Light and took a long, deep drag. While she'd never been completely addicted, she'd essentially kicked the habit after leaving DC, it had always been a great stress reliever. Only recently had she bought a few packs, just in case, merely a way to blow off some steam after a long day. Deep in thought, she didn't notice the figure standing above her.

"Got a light?" Looking up, the blonde couldn't help the absolute horror and simultaneous relief she felt settling in her face. Of all people to find her drunk, smoking, sitting on the curb of a strip mall, outside a local dive, it just had to be that brunette.

Depositing her takeout bag on the ground, Sharon settled next to the younger woman, legs lightly brushing. Almost immediately she grabbed for the cigarette and put it out, smashing the butt against concrete.

"You really shouldn't smoke, Chief." It didn't take a rocket scientist to notice the blonde's drunken state. Even in the sitting postion, she was lightly swaying, eyes not quite able to focus.

"I really shouldn't do a lot of things, Capt'n."

Of course Brenda wouldn't make this easy. As much as the brunette wanted to walk away, run from whatever shit storm the younger woman was currently experiencing, nothing was every that simple. Occasionally, albeit the times were few and far between, she saw herself in the blonde. Going through the motions, letting life swallow you whole, that was something the Captain knew far more about then she'd ever care to let on.

"Have you had dinner?"

"Huh?" At some point Brenda registered the older woman speaking, although she hadn't been paying much attention.

"Dinner - the evening meal? Have you had it? Are you even eating food these days, Chief? You're looking rather small…"

"Oh, no, I haven't eaten yet. I was just waitin' for Fritzie to come pick me up and…" In one rather ungraceful motion, Sharon hefted herself off the curb and offered a hand to the younger woman. Surprisingly, she felt those stubby fingers interlace with her own. A look of absolute relief seemed to settle across the blonde's features.

"Save it, Brenda. You don't need to explain to me. Come on, I've got enough take-out in here for ten people."

**A/N:** This little story has been dancing around my brain for the better part of a few months. While initially it was more an abstract concept, it only recently became clear during a Tuesday evening run. This story (if/when continued) will feature some dark themes that I've considered for these characters on numerous occasions. I want to challenge myself and this story seemed like a great outlet. Comments are always helpful and encouraged, I'm just trying to get better and figure out what to continue! Thanks to DB for helping me narrow my thoughts into a cohesive plan of attack and Thea for providing a fabulous sounding board and the title. xoxo


	3. Chapter 2

**Trigger Warning from prologue still in effect. **

**A/N:** Thanks for all the initial reviews, glad to see there is some interest in this continuing. Just giving everyone a heads up, between 3 jobs and training for a variety of summer races, updates are going to be a bit scarce. Unfortunately bill paying takes priority over writing (so annoying). I'd love to hear what everyone is thinking of the subject matter and flow, reviews and constructive criticism are always encouraged and welcomed. Have a great week!

* * *

_'time to tell me the truth. to burden your mouth for what you say, no pieces of paper in the way.'_

Brenda watched, completely enthralled, as her legs aimlessly swung off the bar stool she'd been parked in immediately after entering Sharon's house. A nervous habit most likely, but it was at least keeping the tidal wave of emotions at bay. Somehow the last 30 minutes had become a blur, she'd blinked and all too suddenly found herself perched at the brunette's kitchen island, watching her portion out two generous helpings of Chicken Lo-Mein. The silver lining in this shit show of an afternoon turned evening, at least the Captain enjoyed quality, artery-clogging Chinese. That had been rather unexpected, to say the least. Somehow she'd always envisioned that fit, forever health conscious, older woman opting solely for healthy things like steamed broccoli and tofu. Although, if she was honest, the event's of the last hour had been a whole host of unexpected. In four years, she'd barely scratched the surface when it came to one Captain Sharon Raydor. Of course it did seem that some of Brenda's initial assumptions rang true. The brunette was (if the black and white picture wall was any indication) the proud Mama of 3 children, two boys and a girl. Each possessed noticeable traits, although she and her daughter shared a rather striking resemblance. She was practically a miniature – trademark smirk and all.

Continuing her inconspicuous appraisal of the older woman's rather spacious home from her perched position, the blonde noted the absence of some sort of father figure in every picture. Perhaps Mr. Raydor was taking the photos? Her curiosity was immediately piqued, she fought desperately with her barely existent self-control to stay seated, not veer off in search of answers to questions she hadn't realized she cared about until this moment. Sharon never wore a ring to work, but the Chief had deduced through rather limited interaction that the woman just might want to keep her private life, well, private. It's not like everyone in the LAPD needed to be privy to an officer's personal life. Marrying Fritz, she'd known their union would become part of the rumor mill, gossip for the greater LA law community. But Sharon struck her as more reserved, less likely to enjoy the public spotlight. Returning to reality, she quickly realized the brunette was looking at her expectantly for a response.

"I'm sorry Cap'n, can you say that again?" Brenda attempted a half-smile, masking how awkward and out-of-place she felt in the older woman's personal space, being so scrutinized in an unfamiliar location. And why was Sharon being so nice anyway? Until recently, the Chief had done nothing but thwart her forward progress on almost every IA investigation, including the one within her own division.

"Did you need anything else, maybe some water? I'd offer you some wine, but it seems like you've had enough already…"

"Oh no, I'm fine," muttered the blonde, staring down at the plate in front of her to avoid eye contact. While Sharon wasn't CIA trained, they both knew she'd become all too aware of almost all the younger woman's expressions. As much as the blonde hated to admit it, she was an incredibly easy read, especially outside the office when her southern drawl and charmingly deceptive demeanor weren't necessary. In fact, Brenda would bet the brunette could probably read her better than Fritz these days – a thought she would have immediately dismissed a year ago. Realizing she'd been too absorbed to actually acknowledge the kindness Captain Raydor was providing (she'd been taught better, of course), she shot the older woman a genuine smile. "Thank you, Cap'n – for all of this."

"No thanks necessary. And I think, since we're off the clock, you can call me Sharon."

"Well thank you, _Sharon_."

Sharon was acutely aware of their proximity to each other, both women rooted firmly in their bar stool, attempting to keep their focus solely on every bite, never looking up. They ate in uncomfortable silence, occasionally discussing superficial, work related investigations. However, as the minutes passed, the brunette was finding it harder to bite her tongue. What was going on with the Deputy Chief? What had driven her to the bar on a Monday afternoon? Being part of the LAPD, it was understandable (and in her humble opinion, sometimes downright necessary) to need a drink or two after a hard case. There was no use dwelling on a situation you couldn't control, at least not without the help of a stiff cocktail. But this case, while puzzling, was pretty standard for Los Angeles. It wasn't as if Brenda had known any of the players involved, there wasn't anything too upsetting about a dead store clerk and some sleezeball, low-level dealer getting into an early morning shoot out. And whatever happened earlier in the Murder Room between the blonde and Agent Howard…well, things didn't look good. The way Sharon assessed this current situation she'd almost accidentally found herself in - she had two choices. Obviously the easy road seemed ideal, bury her head in the sand and ignore Brenda's odd behavior and apparent internal conflict. The Captain had enough on her plate, between her children who'd all opted to move cross-country and rather serious relationship with two men, Ben & Jerry (most dates with those two party animals involved her other true love, TiVo).

Letting out an audible sigh, Sharon resigned herself to the fact that the blonde needed someone. As much as she wanted to walk away, pretend Brenda seemed fine enough, she couldn't allow the Chief to continue down this self-destructive path. Between the younger woman's ever thinning frame, dark circles, and afternoon parties for one, someone needed to step in – reason with the stubborn woman. And contrary to Major Crimes', and the LAPD in general's belief, the Captain was actually a very compassionate and kind human being. Perhaps that's why she'd picked Internal Affairs so many years ago, to help those who'd been wrongly accused of using their power for evil instead of good.

"So Brenda, I realize this isn't exactly my place to ask, but is everything okay? It seemed kind of odd, finding you at the bar this afternoon and…."

"Are you married?" Both women froze. Brenda had begun to register the older woman speaking, but couldn't seem to help blurting out the question that'd been looping in her brain since sometime soon after they'd arrived. Seeing the brunette's hesitation, she ran a hand through her hair and attempted to defuse the situation. Switching gears, she changed the topic to something both could more comfortably discuss. They would return to this conversation at a later date. As almost everyone knew (the Lord and Willie Rae, mostly), Brenda wouldn't allow the question to stay unanswered forever, hanging in space without a resolution.

"I'm sorry Cap-, I mean Sharon. I shouldn't have asked that. I'm just, well, I didn't know and…"

"It's okay, Brenda." It wasn't like her inquiry was completely unexpected, especially considering their current location and Sharon's serious aversion to actually discussing her personal life with – well anyone, besides her immediate family and handful of close friends. To be honest, even those few souls weren't too privy to the innermost workings of her everyday. Resigning herself to soothing Brenda's obviously budding curiosity, which would turn into single-minded focus if the older woman didn't respond in a timely manner, she decided perhaps a little sharing could open the lines of communication. A personal tit-for-tat, some motivation to get the younger woman talking too.

* * *

An hour later, Fritz idly tapped his fingers against the steering wheel – attempting to keep tempo with _Carry On Our Wayward Son,_ but failing miserably. Glancing down at his car stereo, he noted the time. If she didn't hurry up, they definitely were going to miss the movie. After they could talk, clear the air. There were a few things he needed to say and hopefully she'd stick around.

To say he'd been surprised by his wife's earlier text was an understatement. He'd practically dropped the phone reading her quick message, utterly confused at how exactly she'd found herself in such a predicament.

_Got drinks with Sharon - she invited me for dinner, see you later tonight. xoxo, BL_

As she approached the car, Agent Howard couldn't help but gawk, openly appraising the beautiful woman in front of him. Somehow, even after months of unhappiness and countless nights wondering exactly how his life had become so incredibly hard, he'd found her – Angie. All curves, long legs, dark hair, tan, a polar opposite from his now frigid, distant wife. Of course, he hadn't meant to cheat, not exactly anyway. But then again, he hadn't meant to start drinking either. But there was only so much one man could take, only so many times he could hear _'not tonight'_ or _'it's not you, it's me'_ before he'd begun to question how things had gone so wrong. Initially he'd taken it personally, somehow he'd failed to provide a shoulder to cry on, arms to hold her up when she faltered. But as the weeks continued to pass and Brenda turned inward, he'd needed to feel something. Drinking had soothed his budding self-doubt, but soon nothing burned quite as much as her constant rejection. He needed to feel more – more pain, more pleasure, more something. That night, he'd gone out with his FBI buddies and there she was, behind the bar. He'd been like a moth to the flame, unable to resist her charm, good nature, and abundance of lush curves. Ducking his hands under the bar, he'd slipped off the wedding band with practiced ease, depositing it swiftly into is jacket pocket, and jumped head first into pursuing this incredible woman.

* * *

"…Even though we tried to make it work, mostly for our children, it was hard to deny that neither of us were interested in continuing to invest so much time into something that'd been broken for years." Decades really, the older woman thought darkly. Chancing a glance, she saw Brenda's face – focused solely on the Captain, obviously enthralled by such a personal admission. Sharon hadn't really meant to unload so much, but it'd been much easier than she'd expected. While she was almost positive the blonde hadn't been through quite so much over the past few decades, it'd still felt like she understood. There wasn't any judgment; just a reassuring smile and nod as Sharon recounted an abridged version of her utter shit-show of a marriage. And surprisingly, it was if the younger woman knew exactly when the brunette's voice would halt, falter just a bit, giving a slight hint at the pain buried beneath her Captain Raydor mask. In those moments, albeit few, she'd felt a reassuring hand cover her own. But just as quickly as she'd felt the warmth, registered the almost intimate moment, the blonde would pull away.

Brenda felt momentary overwhelmed by the brunette's confession, like she'd been privy to too much, too soon. But it was also incredibly reassuring. Sharon had secrets, lots of them. In fact, the blonde felt like she'd barely begun to scratch the surface when it came to the older woman in front of her. Maybe everything she'd been keeping inside, all the doubt, insecurities, inability to believe she was worth sticking around for…perhaps the Captain had felt that way too? All too quickly, she realized one rather glaring snag in her current train of thought – they weren't friends. Brenda didn't have friends to be exact. Soon Sharon, just like everyone else, would realize her flaws, exploit her insecurities until she was left with more heartache. Maybe the older woman was using her now, attempting to gain her trust and secure some sort of leverage for their next shared investigation? It wasn't above Fritz to threaten to expose her fears, manipulate her to bend to his wishes when necessary…it would only make sense that Sharon would do the same. Whatever positive feelings she'd experienced over the past few hours, almost an understanding with the brunette, like they were in this together – they were all but erased. And once again, Brenda found herself with another and yet incredibly alone.

One thing was for sure, the blonde needed to get out. As her ever-looping reel of self-doubt began playing loudly in her head, drowning out everything else, she noticed the obvious change in Sharon's face. The Captain was attempting to read her, to understand exactly what was going on, why her companion's demeanor had so rapidly shifted.

"Well thank you Sharon, thanks for everything this evenin', but I probably should be goin'…" Brenda felt the bile rising, anxiety kicking in and rearing its ugly head. The space was suddenly too small, if she didn't leave now, she wasn't sure she'd be able to continue to hold it together. Sharon stood, attempting to stop the younger woman and the blonde's gag reflex gave out instinctively, the wave of distress overtaking her frail frame. She high tailed it for the kitchen sink, the only proper (and visible) place she'd consider getting sick in. As she spilled the contents of dinner into the sink, focusing solely on ending this embarrassing display as soon as possible, she sensed a warm presence behind her. Sharon grabbed for her hair, holding it away from her face and secured it back with one hand, using the other gently rub her back.

"You're okay, Brenda, I've got you," Sharon quietly murmured, instantly reverting to mother-mode, remembering all those time her children had been sick, bent over the toilet for what seemed like hours.

As the minutes passed, the blonde quieted but refused to turn. Opting to continue her inspection of the sink, unable to meet the older woman's gaze. If there had been a chance of getting out of this situation without too many questions, she'd blown that opportunity the second her stomach decided to turn against her.

Sensing Brenda's obvious desire to remain turned away, Sharon grabbed for her arms and slowly guided her toward the couch. Not wanting to spook the younger woman into bolting for the door, the brunette headed back to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. As she filled the tumbler, she took a moment to replay the past few minutes and devise some sort of plan to extract any information from the obviously distraught blonde. The past few weeks had her concerned, between Brenda's thinning frame and generally depressed attitude. Finding her at the bar this afternoon, well that'd led to legitimate worry for the younger woman's well-being. Now, after this most recent display, Sharon found herself vacillating somewhere between genuinely alarmed and full on panicked.

Ever so gently, the brunette handed Brenda the glass and quietly settled on the opposite end of the couch.

"Thank you," she absently responded, never looking up. After taking a long drink, she deposited the cup on the side table and returned to staring off into the distance.

When the young woman made no attempt to begin a conversation, maybe explain exactly what had just happened, Sharon tentatively broached the subject. "Brenda, is everything okay?"

Her question was met with an audible sob, the blonde covering her face in her hands as she wept.


	4. Chapter 3

_"I'll let you look inside me, through the stains and through the cracks,_  
_And in the darkness of this moment,_  
_You see the good and bad._  
_But try not to judge me, 'cause we've walked down different paths,_  
_But it brought us here together, so I won't take that back."_

Sharon's heart ached for the incredibly distraught woman in front of her. Throughout their time together, especially over these past few months, she'd seen Brenda visibly upset. But after a few moments of sinking into self-pity, she'd always been able to shake it off, move on - at least until now. Sitting here, watching the blonde deflate, she found herself rather unsure of how to proceed. Now that Goldman was no longer an apparent concern, she couldn't begin to fathom what fresh hell had been heaped on the Chief's plate. Sharon had asked what was going on, more than once if she wasn't mistaken, but the blonde didn't seem too keen on communicating anything beyond her standard _"I'm fine"_ and quick change of topic. Shaking her head at the absurdity of the present, given their rather shaky history, Sharon suggested the only thing that might actually help.

"Brenda, would you like me to call Agent Howard," she practically whispered, not wanting to disturb the frail woman too much or seem like she was trying to minimize this obvious break down. But if she was being honest, did she really care what Brenda thought? She'd done her due diligence, attempted to show she was genuinely interested. If the blonde wasn't willing to accept the hand she'd offered, that was the Chief's problem. Still - she couldn't help but feel like pawning a very shaken Brenda on Fritz might do more harm the good, especially after that early afternoon display. Unfortunately she didn't have much choice if the younger woman blatantly refused acknowledging there was anything wrong. And she certainly wasn't about to drive Brenda back to her car, giving her yet another opportunity to choose a bottle of Merlot over dealing with whatever this was. That was something Sharon just couldn't live with.

"Brenda - do you need me to call you husband?" This time she raised her voice a bit, trying to gain the younger woman's attention. Short of standing on her head and yelling _'fire'_, she wasn't having much luck pulling her out of the darkness she'd sunk into. Changing tactics, she lightly shook Brenda's arm.

"Oh sorry, Cap'n. that's fine," she muttered, refusing to look up, unable to meet Sharon's gaze. This was embarrassing to say the least. Brenda had never been comfortable showing much emotion beyond the typical, sometimes superficial, bubbly personality she hid behind when things became too intense. But as each day passed and life kept getting worse, she could no longer call up that sweet southern belle, it seemed to difficult – or perhaps no longer necessary. After all, misery loved company she supposed.

"Are you going to be okay? I just need to grab my phone from the other room..." Sharon's words once again startled her back into the present.

"I'll be just fine." The blonde started wiping furiously at her eyes, ineffectively trying to cover up her rather uncharacteristic outburst. She needed to get it together, there was no use crying about a situation she had no control over. And there was certainly no use continuing this pity party with Sharon, it wasn't like she'd be able to change anything either. Besides, she was already trying to get rid of her. Calling Agent Howard, obviously she didn't really care what was going on, she was just being polite. This was all part of the typical Captain Raydor show. And Brenda was not about to fall for it, not again.

_"You've reached Agent Howard, FBI liaison officer to the LAPD..."_

This was Sharon's third attempt, apparently Fritz wasn't planning on picking up. Maybe he didn't have his phone? Perhaps it was on silent? Or he screened? It wasn't like he and brunette were old buddies who regularly engaged in after hour's chats. Not to mention, they'd essentially closed their earlier shared investigation. So there was really no reason she would be trying to locate him at this hour. She'd hoped three calls in rapid succession might alert him to the seriousness of this situation, but no such luck. Maybe he'd answer Brenda's phone?

Entering the living room, the older woman noticed Brenda hadn't bolted at the first opportunity– in fact, she hadn't moved from the couch at all. The sobbing had subsided, replaced with the occasional sniffle. Once again Brenda was staring at nothing in particular, light years away. Sharon returned to her previous spot and gently placed a hand on top of the Chief's, squeezing softly. Giving her the reassurance that she was there, desperately trying to convey she wouldn't leave, but not wanting to push Brenda back into the present until she was ready. While she wasn't completely aware of the blonde's current predicament, she'd started to put together a few of the pieces.

Lost in thought, absorbed somewhere between her mother's last call and that infamous morning, amid the constant bickering and drinking routine she and Agent Howard had fallen into, she registered the warmth of her hand covered by Sharon's and looked up, feigning her best half smile. Fritz must be close and she still needed to get her things...

"Would you mind if I used your cell," the brunette tentatively inquired, never dropping Brenda's hand.

"Why would you need my phone? I mean, this is your house - don't you have a few of'em lyin' around you could use?"

"Agent Howard isn't answering his cell, I thought perhaps if I called from yours, he'd be more inclined to..."

"Side pocket of my purse - password is 1,2,3,4," the blonde indicated, not even remotely concerned about what Sharon may find. Where was Fritz? He'd texted her earlier about a meeting, but that'd been hours ago…

The brunette allowed herself a small chuckle at Chief's simple, obvious choice of numerical protection - how Brenda Leigh of her. Unlocking the phone, she once again began her vain attempt at locating the Agent. After three rings, she heard that distinct, annoyed voice.

"What's up Bren, I'm kind of busy at the moment. Can this wait until tomorrow morning?" Fritz tried to hide the irritation, of course she'd ruin this evening. It was like she had a sixth sense for when he was happy. She'd no doubt shit all over this moment too; she really didn't care about anyone besides herself.

"Agent Howard, this is Cap-Sharon, this is Sharon Raydor. I'm not sure if the Chief told you, but she was over my house this evening and it seems she may have had a little too much to drink."

Fritz rolled his eyes, stifling an audible sigh. Perfect - she'd gotten drunk, probably bitching about some case she couldn't quite figure out. Maybe she'd asked the Captain for a favor, off the record of course. It seemed that's all he was good for these days, at least in his wife's opinion. And now, even without consciously meaning to, she was threatening to ruin his budding relationship with someone who actually put his needs before her own. Well he wasn't about to let this become the norm, he was holding onto Angie and what they'd tentatively begun to build together. "I may be Brenda's husband, Captain, but I'm not her keeper. I really don't think it'd be in my best interest to come get her at this moment."

"Fritz, look, I'm a little concerned. She doesn't seem to be doing too well and I'm not sure she's very interested in talking about anything with me, considering our rather - bumpy history together." Sharon decided to leave out the part about Brenda diving into a bottle of Merlot the first chance she'd get if left alone.

"I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I'm stuck on a stake out, and I just - I mean, I'm not going to be able to come get her until morning." Fuck, this woman was relentless.

"Oh, okay. Well I'm not sure what I should do..."

"Look Sharon, Brenda Leigh is an adult. If you need her out of your hair, just take her home. I'm sure she'll be fine. And I'll be sure to check in as soon as possible. I'm sorry but I've got to go..." Sharon could hear the sound of other conversations in the background; Fritz wasn't undercover at all. Unless FBI stake out's these days included a rather loud review of Steven Spielberg's latest film and a casual chat regarding the lack of chocolate coating on Peanut M&Ms. It took the older woman about 0.5 seconds to decide there was no chance in hell she'd be leaving the blonde to her own devices. Now all that was left was convincing that very skilled interrogator that everything was _'just fine.'_

* * *

Fritz clipped back into the dimly lit theater, hopeful his companion wouldn't notice how long he'd been gone - or the obvious scowl that'd settled on his face, thanks to his completely obnoxious and irresponsible wife. Easing into the seat, he felt a hand snake into his own.

"Everything okay?" Angie whispered.

"Just the office, nothing I couldn't talk them through," he lied.

The woman returned her attention to the screen, completely enthralled with Denzel Washington's latest performance. Fritz let his mind wander, momentarily replaying how he'd gotten to this point - allowing Captain Sharon Raydor, of all people, to take care of his depressed and intoxicated wife while he was out, enjoying the company of another woman. Glancing over, he couldn't help but imagine how much easier life might have been had he waited before jumping back into marriage. Truthfully, he'd never been 100% when it came to the Deputy Chief. At first, she'd seemed perfect - incredible body, blonde, and interested in advancing her career (which if he was being honest, would help move his along as well). Fritz had always enjoyed a challenge and he'd hoped to settle her down, have a few children, move to the 'burbs. And it was obvious almost immediately that she'd garner incredible respect from the LA law community, even with her rather unconventional ways of securing confessions. He'd be set for life.

It was no secret Fritz had always been interested in moving up the ranks, having a successful and well-known wife only added to his résumé that'd been tarnished for so many years. There had only been one glaring snag in his master laid plan, Brenda had no interest in stepping back from the spotlight, starting a family, and allowing Fritz a chance for glory. While she'd always given him the standard speech, _'I'm just doin' my job to protect and serve - the lights and cameras followin' Major Crimes does more harm then good'_, he knew better. She craved the attention, demanded to always be the center of a room. And with every passing day, she'd climbed higher and he vanished just a little more from the radar. He'd hitched his wagon to hers, assuming one day down the road he'd be rewarded in spades with a beautiful, stay at home wife and 2.5 equally beautiful children. Instead he'd settled for half the salary of his more successful partner and resigned himself to cooking and cleaning to keep up with _her_ hectic schedule and _her_ cases. And then the Goldman suit had popped up, finally shedding light on her questionable actions. But instead of being the leverage he'd been searching for, the final straw that would effectively force her into early retirement, she'd actually won. And somewhere along the way, he'd lost himself amid long nights waiting up for her, trying to keep up.

* * *

"Where's Fritzie? " Brenda winced as the words spilled out, she hadn't meant to sound so desperate, so ungrateful for the kindness the older woman had provided. But she needed to leave, this was becoming too much, and she couldn't be sure of the brunette's motives. Not to mention, crying in front of her (until all but recently) sworn nemesis wasn't exactly a precedent she was interested in setting. No - right now all she needed was a large glass of Merlot, the other half of the cheesecake she'd started digging into yesterday, and some quality time petting Joel and watching trashy reality television. Then she'd feel good as new.

"He's working - a stake out I believe. So unfortunately he won't be able to get here until tomorrow morning..."

"Oh." Since when? She'd talked to him a few hours ago, it wasn't like undercover work just popped up. And usually he called.

"Brenda, it's okay. I've got a spare bedroom. You can stay here and early tomorrow I'll be more then happy to run you back to your car."

"No, Cap'n - I mean, no thank you. I'm just fine takin' a taxi back." The Chief grabbed her phone out of Sharon's hands and stood, putting distance between herself and the nightmare this situation was slowly becoming. Pacing, she tried to come up with a more adequate alternative, preferably that wouldn't involve her walking the 10 miles back to her rancher. Although she wasn't above it, worst case – there was absolutely no way she was staying here.

"I don't think that's a good idea. It's getting late and…" Sharon stood, blocking the blonde's only exit. The younger woman would have to physically move her to get to the door, and the Captain was not letting her continue this pity party alone at home - or worse, at that seedy bar she'd found her outside earlier that evening.

Brenda could see the older woman wasn't backing down, she'd continue until the blonde caved. Resigning herself to the fact that she'd be spending the next few hours here (perhaps she could call that taxi once Sharon went to bed…), she let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine, Sharon. I'll stay."

**A/N**: Baby's teething, so I found some free time to continue while he naps. I realize we're three chapters deep and haven't gotten much past the 36 hour mark. I promise things will begin to pick up, just needed to set up that pesky background and some important plot details. Much of this was written on an Iphone, I apologize if I missed some random spelling errors. As always, reviews motivate me to stay up till the wee hours of the morning to complete things. And I could really use some feedback (I couldn't seem to get the editing right), especially on people's continued interest in the subject line and transitions between POV. xoxo


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I'd like to take a few moments of your time to discuss gratitude and the recent anonymous comments a few stories received (mine included). I am internally grateful for the comments, reviews, encouragement, and general positive things readers offer up. It's no secret; a great review or even a little constructive criticism can make an author's day. Sometimes, it's that little extra push of motivation – knowing someone enjoys your work is a phenomenal feeling. That being said, agreeing to continue this WIP journey with us, readers need to be prepared for lags in updates. I consider this fandom full of incredibly talented, smart individuals who are also out pursuing legitimate, real life goals and aspirations. From degrees to promotions, jobs to family duties, we don't always have time to write. Personally, holding down multiple jobs, training for a tough mudder, and often being responsible for taking my ailing grandparents to a variety of appointments – I don't have a lot of downtime. If this is upsetting to you, the fact that I'm not jobless and can sit at home all day and churn out stories, I would highly recommend checking back for the little 'complete' text to be displayed. Otherwise, please show some respect. Give us all the time and space necessary to create great chapters and edit until we feel it's just right (or right enough, which is often the case for me). Again, thank you to those who have left such positive comments and reviews – it does keep me pushing through when I feel like throwing up my hands and walking away. I will continue to write these ladies, regardless of anyone's enjoyment, until I feel like I've got nothing constructive to add. But I'm not gonna lie, it's nice to know that some of you enjoy them as well.

* * *

_"Where there is desire there is gonna be a flame. Where there is a flame someone is bound to get burned. And just because it burns, it doesn't mean you're gonna die. You've gotta get up and try"_

Shockingly, Brenda hadn't run. In fact, she'd slept like a rock (she contributed that mostly to the phenomenal temperpedic mattress the older woman provided in her guest bedroom), even hitting the snooze more than once as daylight broke. Finally, a little after 7:30, she dragged her incredibly well rested self out of bed and high tailed it toward the shower. The blonde was running late, 45 minutes to be exact. Hopefully Sharon hadn't left yet. But more importantly, she was desperate for a cup of coffee and maybe a donut or three. While she'd gotten some much-needed shut-eye, her body still hadn't quite adjusted to a diet predominately composed of Merlot and margaritas. 3,000 calories worth of carbs, perhaps in donut or waffle form, would be just the ticket to a splendid morning, sans that pounding hangover headache.

Sharon had woken up around 6:30, as usual, and slowly crept toward the spare bedroom door - a little more than pleasantly surprised that Brenda was still there. Unless she'd found a stand in who snored like a Mac truck, it appeared the Chief hadn't bolted once she'd shut off the lights. Not wanting to wake the blonde (honestly, the younger woman's dark circles had begun to form dark circles - had she slept at all in the past month?), Sharon opted for a morning jog. Brenda's car was still at that strip mall and she'd promised the Chief about 20 times last night that she'd return her early that morning. Taking into account the younger woman's small stature and drunken antics the previous evening, she'd be out for at least another hour. And it'd been some time since the brunette had extra morning downtime to catch the sunrise; she planned to take full advantage. Slipping into a sports bra, dark blue tank, and black running capris, she grabbed her IPod off the charging station and headed quietly out the door.

As her stride became habitual, legs settling into a comfortable pace, thanks in large part to the peppy tempo of Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way', Sharon let her thoughts drift. It appeared Brenda and her husband weren't as in sync as they let on (the older woman was all too familiar with _that_ song and dance). Attempting to convince everyone your relationship was still fantastic, covering up the disdain, animosity behind a fake smile and a _'we're still so in love and so blissfully happy'_. It hadn't taken much to figure out Agent Howard wasn't undercover last night - he'd been out from what she could gather during their albeit brief phone interaction. Most surprisingly, he hadn't seemed too phased by his wife's breakdown. He'd actually been rather uninterested – almost nonchalant. If the Captain didn't know any better, she'd say this was perhaps customary for their relationship, bordering on habitual when she factored in the previous afternoon's office display. And as much as it hurt to have her genuine concern rejected by the younger woman, Sharon still couldn't help but desperately desire to wrap that small body up in her arms, or at least help shelter the younger woman in some way. Protect her from a world that'd dealt her a rough hand over the past few months, protect her from herself.

A short time later, the brunette had deposited Brenda back at her car and things had essentially gone back to status quo – they'd exchanged an awkward goodbye and a smile before heading separately toward headquarters. Sharon had been in the office all of 30 minutes before shots rung out in Hollywood, burying her and FID under a mountain of paperwork and interviews surrounding a multiple officer-involved shoot-out with a bunch of Bloods. Of course she'd considered calling Brenda, on more than one occasion (just to check in), but eventually decided against it. There wasn't much she could do until the blonde admitted that maybe she needed help, needed someone to help her snap out of that constant loop of self-loathing. The Captain had expressed concern, offered a hand, essentially thrown the ball in the younger woman's court. Brenda knew where to find her. And until then, she'd focus on things she could control. Like clearing those obviously innocent officers of any wrongdoing.

Brenda, however, hadn't had time to put down her things, much less take a deep breath, before Fritz rounded the corner and barged in – red faced and obviously quite angry. Slamming the door with more force then necessary, he got into the blonde's space, body mere inches away from her own.

"What the fuck happened last night, Brenda?! The last thing I need while working special ops is a call from _Sharon Raydor_, telling me you've drank too much," he spat, a hint of alcohol on his breath.

"Why don't you get outta my office, Fritz Howard, if you're gonna go around accusin' people of the things you're just as guilty of." Brenda widened her stance, refusing to back down. After a peaceful morning, thanks in large part to the Captain's kindness, the blonde was in no mood for the Agent's drunken display – after all, she'd heard it all before.

Sensing his wife's defensive demeanor, Fritz opted for a little kindness - God knows they could both use a little more of that. "Look Bren, I'm sorry." He rubbed his head, attempting to relieve the tension that'd been forming all morning. Honestly, could they have a single conversation without resorting to vicious name calling or screaming matches? Taking a chance, he put out his hands, pulling her into an awkward embrace. He could feel her muscles tensing, unable to relax in his arms. "I know these last few months haven't been easy on you, I'm sorry I haven't been there, but I want to try."

Brenda froze – willing herself to feel something besides absolute terror at his last statement. Until this point, she'd wanted nothing more than to hear those words, _'I want to try'_, from the man she thought she loved. It'd seemed so easy for him, shutting her out, continuing on while she'd sunk further down. As they'd grown apart, he'd seemed content with the distance, relishing in their separation, and constantly blaming their detachment on her inadequacies as a wife. Now here he was, admitting that perhaps they'd both contributed to the demise of their relationship, and she felt absolutely nothing. And that thought alone, the lack of any real emotion beyond indifference, frightened her. "I wanna try Fritz, I do," she practically whispered, desperately clinging to her own words, attempting believe them.

And they had tried for the next few days, until something inevitably came up. For all intense and purpose, Fritz had meant what he said. They'd shared dinners together, cuddled up on the couch, even slept in the same bed Wednesday night (they'd stayed on opposite sides, Brenda nowhere near ready to initiate intimacy). But regardless of all their efforts, things still seemed stilted, distant, both putting on a really great act. And after three days, he'd had enough – desperate for someone else's attention and love. A love that didn't feel so forced, that seemed to come naturally. Shooting Angie a text, explaining away his absence with a quick _'I was working an undercover investigation'_, she'd reluctantly agreed to meet him at their favorite bar around 9. Now to feign a meeting, hoping the blonde would buy his typical excuse.

"Hey Bren, I'm going to run out for a few hours – catch the meeting at 9 on Mulholland, maybe grab coffee with my sponsor after." He almost tripped toward the door, hobbling on one foot while slipping a shoe on the other. Brenda looked up from the kitchen table and the case file currently occupying her attention.

"I thought we were gonna watch a movie? Isn't this week about reconnectin'? I passed a case off to the boys so I could make time for you, for us. If ida' known that you were just gonna leave…" Placing her glasses down, she met his gaze – noticing the slight twitch of his eye.

"I'm sorry honey, but I need a meeting. I need to get back on track."

Maybe it was the bottle of wine they'd shared at dinner or the obvious eye shift, a telling sign he was lying? Or perhaps she was just tired, tired of going through the motions, dancing around the fact that they'd grown too far apart, maybe this relationship wasn't fixable? Whatever it was, she'd had enough.

"Fritz Howard, I know you're lyin' – why don't you tell me where you're really going?" She raised her voice, slowly enunciating each word, feeling almost comfort in yet another impending argument.

"What is your problem? God forbid I choose a meeting over you once, _one time_ – never mind the fact that you choose work over me daily." Fritz was fuming; he could feel the adrenaline coursing though him, threatening to completely explode at any moment. How dare she question his intentions? Pin their constant dysfunction and disagreements on him? "This is all your fault _Brenda_," he exclaimed, no longer able to control his volume. "If it weren't for you and your inability to think about anyone besides yourself, maybe I wouldn't be in this situation."

"So this is all my fault?!"

"Well lets examine the evidence, _Chief Johnson_ – you're the one who's never home, always out late working. I'm here, trying to keep up with my own little job at the FBI, your cat, your constant needs, your inability to clean up, or interest in anything or anyone that's alive." Any precious self-control Agent Howard was desperately clinging to snapped, unleashing a tidal wave of pent-up frustration, bitterness at exactly what his life had become. "You are pathetic, Brenda. You sit around, waiting for people to die, covering up your worthless existence with the glory of closing some movie star's murder. You have no friends, no life – I feel sorry for you. But mostly, I just feel sorry for me." Just as quickly as he'd attempted to reconcile, to make things better, it was all over - he grabbed his keys and left, unable to meet her gaze, witness the tears that'd begun to flow freely.

Brenda didn't move from the kitchen table. She was stuck, in every sense. No matter how many times she'd heard his blame, that venom over the last few months, it still stung. Wiping at her eyes, she took a deep breath, wiling herself to calm down. Draining the remainder of the second bottle of Merlot into her glass, the blonde moved automatically toward the bar and grabbed for another. She felt the light brushing of fur against her leg and bent down to pat Joel's head before scooping him up with her free hand.

Two hours later Brenda was mindlessly surfing channels, Joel still parked protectively in her lap, when the phone rang.

"Hello?" Whoever had decided to call at this hour, well they'd just have to deal with her drunken, sour mood.

"Brenda? I'm sorry to call so late – it's Paul." Paul was calling her? While she'd met the older man a handful of times, they'd never spent more than a few minutes together in passing. Mostly it'd just been a few uncomfortable pleasantries while he waited for Fritz to accompany him to whatever meeting. So why would Fritz's sponsor being calling? And at this hour?

"Is everything okay? Where's Fritzie?"

"Well, that's why I'm calling. I haven't seen him for weeks; he hasn't been to any of our usual meetings. I've left voicemails, sent a few messages, a couple emails, no response…"

Before she'd had time to register the motions, she was slipping on shoes and grabbing for her keys, bolting out the door.

Driving up and down Mulholland, she saw no signs of his unmarked in any parking lot. If he'd lied about a meeting (honestly, she'd always assumed that was just an excuse he'd throw out to get out of almost anything), what else had he been keeping from her? Mentally cataloguing their last few months of civil interactions, she remembered a bar off Sunset he'd mentioned – somewhere he and the other FBI boys would go to after a particularly grueling case. Changing lanes, she headed south, shooting a quick prayer to the Lord above that she wouldn't have to badge her way out of a ticket as she stepped on the gas.

Fritz was feeling particularly content, exchanging heated glances with Angie, hands touching, legs lightly brushing hers under the bar. Of course, the two rounds of whiskey also helped – nothing like a little Jack to keep the mood light, help loosen the inhibitions.

"…and I was talking to a few girls at work, they'd love to set up a group date – maybe get a chance to meet the new man in my life…" As she continued, he couldn't help but notice a mass of blonde curls round the corner, walking slowly toward him. Their eye's met; for a moment the world stopped. Fritz was having an out of body experience. Perhaps he'd drank that second whiskey a little too fast…there was no way she'd ever find him here. How could she possibly even know where to look? Cursing his luck, he stood, attempting to block Brenda from getting too close – more upset she'd ruined a perfectly wonderful evening than the fact that'd she obviously discovered his dirty little secret.

Brenda grabbed for his arm, treating him no better then all those suspect's she'd put away, and pulled him close, whispered low in his ear. "I guess we both know who's really been thinkin' about just them," she murmured, gripping tighter on his arm. "Don't bother comin' home, ever. I'm done with you." No tears, no dramatic antics, just 4 simple words – words she'd never thought they'd come to. And just as quickly as she'd come in, she was gone.

It'd taken about 5 minutes of sitting in that Crown Vic, staring aimlessly at the patrons heading home or just arriving, watching traffic whiz by, to register the weight of what'd just occurred. Gravity struck, and she was suddenly pulled back down to earth – forced to wrap her already fragile mind around the fact that she was once again completely, totally alone. She'd screwed up yet another relationship beyond repair, something she was finding far too easy these days. Unsure of what to do next, she turned on the ignition and began to drive.

Pulling into that familiar driveway, Brenda couldn't seem to muster the courage to actually get out walk toward the front door. It appeared her car had a mind of its own, there wasn't really any reason for the blonde to show up at Sharon's unannounced – it wasn't like they were sharing a case, or they were actually friends. But, for whatever reason, she'd been drawn here. Unable to deny that Sharon, of all people, might be the only one who understood the blonde, who could make this better. Maybe this was a terrible idea, perhaps the Captain would turn her away, but she had to try. And as much as she hated admitting to herself, or anyone else for that matter, Brenda needed someone. Resigning herself to the fact that nothing was getting accomplished sitting idly in the driveway, she turned off the car and headed slowly toward the door. Sucking in a deep breath, the blonde knocked gently – suddenly aware that the older woman might be asleep, it was well past 10.

Sharon glanced quickly through the peephole, completely shocked at seeing the Deputy Chief waiting impatiently outside. Opening the door, the brunette's heart sank. Brenda's normally lively eyes were red, tears threatening to bubble over. She was hardly able to meet Sharon's gaze.

"I'm sorry to be botherin' you so late, I just – I didn't know where to go," Brenda managed to mutter before collapsing into Sharon, burying her head in a mass of brown curls, no longer able to hold back a loud sob.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** I realize the last chapter might have seemed very sudden in its conclusion, but fear not - Brenda's got some explainin' to do. Per usual, comments and thoughts (even constructive criticism) are encouraged - and it makes my fingers move just a little bit faster. I liked the idea of playing with how the events unfolded and when the audience became aware of certain details, so any thoughts on that would be amazing.

p.s. tough mudder this weekend (i'm super nervous), so positive vibes that I get through in one piece would be amazing.

* * *

Introspection wasn't really the Chief's favorite pastime – in fact, the blonde would rate her interest in self-discovery somewhere between the feelings elicited from an annual dentist's check-up (where per usual, she'd be lectured about her overconsumption of sweets) and running out of ding-dongs after a rough day. But over these past months, thanks in large part to the absolute shit-show that'd become her life, she'd managed to find more than ample opportunity to examine exactly how she'd found herself in this precarious position. Good news, she wasn't jobless. Otherwise, her life was pretty much a train wreck. And tonight was the cherry on top.

"Brenda? Did you need something? Tea?" As Sharon examined the unresponsive woman next to her, a heaviness settled inside. It'd taken several long moments after the blonde's arrival to calm her down enough to move from the front door. Slowly, the older woman had led her toward the couch, depositing her on the middle cushion before the brunette settled beside her. Sharon had refused to let go, continuing to cradle the Chief, who seemed somewhat comforted by her presence. Brenda had cried into the Captain's shoulder, even after the shaking and gut-wrenching sobs had subsided. Finally, with aching tenderness, the brunette removed the younger woman's face from her shoulder to meet her own – unable to control the sudden desire to wipe a stray tear from Brenda's cheek before tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Hesitating, she floundered a bit to find the right words. Desperate to understand exactly what was going on but afraid of pushing Brenda too much, remember all too well how she'd shut down when things felt too personal.

"Brenda," she began slowly, hoping the younger woman would meet her gaze. With no real direction, she tested the waters with an obvious question, "Are you okay?"

Suddenly brought back to the present, unable and perhaps no longer interested in putting on a brave face, the blonde answered honestly. "No, I don't think I am," she sighed, examining her hand, which was now entwined with the Captain's, feeling a little too raw to actually look up.

Brenda could say without hesitation she'd had an inkling that perhaps Fritz was engaging in some type of extracurricular activities. He'd been distant, often stayed out late 'with the boys', and generally seemed completely uninterested in things he'd once loved (Brenda, baseball, sobriety, just to name a few). However, falling off the wagon was something she'd almost been expecting, eventually. It was no secret Fritz needed constant attention, ego stroking, and lots of affection. When things weren't going his way – well, he was more than willing to throw a temper tantrum or break a dish or two. It hadn't always been that way, at least not that she remembered. But as the years went by, she found herself unable to change, be exactly the woman_ he_ wanted, the wife _he_ had intended on marrying. For the most part things hummed along as the months passed, neither interested in addressing those big issues, the unmet expectations he continued to harbor, the ones he constantly hung over her head. Then Goldman, Terrell Baylor, the lawsuit; things began to fray. Brenda had actually been quite surprised he'd remained sober throughout that whole ordeal. Lord knows, she was almost never home, preferring to surround herself with those who were supportive – like her team and Captain Raydor, which had been a total surprise. Sharon always seemed loyal (she'd argue sometimes to a fault), but their tentative friendship had become something she craved, especially when things got tough. On more than one occasion, Brenda had seized the opportunity for the older woman's help over her husbands; always feeling, somewhere deep in her gut, that the brunette would be there, no questions asked. She was drawn to the warmth, the lack of expectations, the unconditional acceptance of Brenda, mistakes and all. Something she no longer felt at home.

Of course Brenda wanted her husband happy and she wanted their marriage to work. She'd meant it when she said, 'for better or worse.' But at what point was enough _actually_ enough? Where did one draw the line? How much did she have to change to meet his unrealistic expectation of their relationship?

"It's over," Brenda whispered, unable to hold back – she hadn't meant to say it, not out loud, that made it real. And while it was obvious that the Captain cared, at least to some extent, it was still incredibly difficult to believe that anyone truly would have the blonde's back once they'd been made privy to her abject failures as a person.

"What's over?" Sharon squeezed the blonde's hand lightly, not exactly following. Knowing Brenda and her rather reckless behavior, she couldn't even begin to fathom what could now be over.

"Fritz, me, _we're_ over."

_Oh_, Sharon thought – well, that wasn't exactly what she'd expected. While it wasn't completely shocking, the older woman had been mentally preparing for some work-related mishap since Brenda had shown up on her doorstep. That made sense, the blonde seeking refuge here (of all places) after a case went south, threatened the already shaky ground the Chief was experiencing professionally. What didn't quite compute, however, was the younger woman seeking out Sharon when her personal life began to crumble. But for whatever reason, she'd driven here; a thought that tugged at the Captain's heartstrings and gave her that extra little push to continue honestly, no longer as nervous the younger woman would run. "When you say over…"

"We're done, there's no goin' back, not this time," Brenda muttered, meeting the Captain's gaze. "He's moved on, found someone else…" She choked back a sob, unable to finish. The blonde was angry, pissed even, that he hadn't had the decency to simply leave before shacking up with someone else. But more so, Fritz's betrayal felt like a punch to the stomach – her ego bruised beyond repair. Maybe if she'd been a better wife, a better lover, easier to deal with?

"And I take it this was unexpected?" Sharon had been there. Looking back all those years, she'd known. Call it a woman's intuition or simply a shift in behavior; she'd sensed something just wasn't right. And considering the blonde's extensive background with the CIA and interrogation tactics, it was hard to imagine the Chief hadn't had a single suspicion.

Brenda took a deep breath, "well maybe I knew more than I was lettin' on, although I wasn't ever sure exactly what Fritz was doin' when he said he was going to a meetin'…"

After recounting the first half of the evening's events, her search for Agent Howard after Paul's alarming call, the older woman inserting the appropriate _'ah-ha's'_ and _'I see's'_, the blonde hesitated – unsure whether she wanted to continue. The Captain hadn't judged her for the plethora of mistakes she'd made while Head of Priority Homicide and eventually Major Crimes, even when Goldman essentially displayed her shortcomings and professional blunders on a silver platter, mocking her in front of the entire LAPD community. Work mishaps aside, it was still hard to believe Sharon genuinely cared outside of their professional interactions. But there was something in the brunette's gaze, a glimmer of something that almost appeared to be understanding.

"I saw his car, parked in the back of the lot," she uttered, refusing to allow her voice to falter from equal parts embarrassment and anger. "I waited for a while, just to see if he'd come out. Maybe save me the trouble of goin' in, seein' what he was really up to."

_Brenda keyed off the ignition and waited, spotting Fritz's unmarked car parked inconspicuously toward the back lot, far away from any lampposts or light sources. After a few minutes glancing around for signs of other Agents or their vehicles, some clue as to who he'd come here with, she resigned herself to the fact that she'd have to investigate. Head down, trench collar pulled up, hair tucked down in the cream coat wrapped tightly around her, the blonde casually waltzed inside. After a quick scan, she spied an unoccupied corner booth and clipped toward it. Sliding in, back facing the bar; she positioned herself against the wall to get a better angle. Across the dive, toward the furthest corner, she spotted Agent Howard sitting on a stool, chatting rather intimately with a brunette seated beside him. Brenda took a few moments to examine the woman – attempting to place her among the variety of FBI Agents & civilian employees she'd met over the past few years. When Fritz reached out, taking her hand in his own, Brenda understood. _

_Obviously this woman wasn't someone he worked with. Between the incredibly low-cut top and obviously enhanced cleavage, she didn't exactly scream law enforcement. The blonde continued to watch, frozen in place. Soon her curiosity and genuine confusion transitioned to anger, as Fritz and this mystery brunette's close contact became physical. It was one thing to explain away the clasping of hands – a sometimes chaste gesture exchanged between friends during times of trouble. But whispering into each other's ear, light grazing of lips, there was nothing platonic about this interaction. Fighting her initial urge to vault across the bar and pummel this woman (and Agent Howard), she took a moment to collect her thoughts. The blonde's quick temper would do no good in this situation, in fact it would probably just make things worse. Settling back into the bar, no longer needing proof of exactly what Fritz had hidden, she began to mentally prepare for this inevitably difficult interaction. _

"…And I got to thinkin', after I told him it was over, maybe I'd never be the wife he wanted – I'd never be able to change enough. We both deserve to be happy, I guess he's happier with her…"

"Brenda, this isn't your fault," the brunette interrupted, unwilling to indulge in this little pity party for another second.

"Don't get all greetin' card on me, Sharon. I've done the divorce thing before, I know exactly what you're gonna say to try to make me feel better."

"Well, how about this? I'll save you the Hallmark speech and we'll spend the remainder of the evening with a large pizza, The First Wives Club, and a lovely bottle of Pinot Nior I've been saving for a special occasion?" Sharon attempted her best serious, Captain Raydor face, but couldn't hide a small smirk.

"Tonight's your idea of a special occasion? Oh Captain, I think we're gonna have to work on what your definition of…"

"Just shut up and hand me the phone. You're in luck, best pizza in the city delivers here – even at this ungodly hour." Sharon rolled her eyes and grabbed for the phone, reaching over Brenda's lap toward the opposite side table. Eliciting a quiet giggle from the younger woman.

"Thank you Sharon, for everything," the blonde stated honestly. "It's nice havin' someone, not feelin' so alone."

"It's my pleasure, Chief."

Two hours later, Brenda found herself comfortable and pleasantly buzzed on some honest conversation, a few slices of pepperoni pizza, and two glasses of rather excellent Pinot Noir. Things weren't great – she knew this was just the beginning of the mess both she and Fritz had created and were now required to clean up. But there was something peaceful about spending a late night idly chatting with her new friend Sharon; who she found surprisingly sweet, attentive, and even entertaining (although if she was being honest, she'd always assumed their was more to the demeanour the older woman had created during business hours). Watching the brunette attempt to dance and sing along to 'You Don't Own Me' had been a humourous end to an otherwise disastrous day.

"Well, it's gettin' late – I should probably head home…"Brenda hoisted herself off the couch before reaching down to help up her companion, instantly recognizing the familiarity of the gesture.

"Are you sure Agent Howard's come to collect his belongings?" While she'd always had mostly positive experiences with Fritz, Sharon was under no assumption that he'd still be that lovely, docile agent after a night of boozing and threats of divorce. And she wasn't exactly interested in investigating the Chief for use of force due to his ridiculous antics. God knows Brenda would take a couple shots if compelled.

"I guess I'll find out when I get there," the blonde shrugged.

"Why don't you stay here, for the night? Give him space to cool off – in case he's camped outside your door?"

It didn't take more than a moment for the younger woman to consider the offer, "That'd be great, Sharon. I'd like that a lot."

Drifting off, once again surrounded by the brunette's things, cradled peacefully on that incredible temperpedic mattress, Brenda couldn't help but feel like perhaps after all that she'd lost – well maybe in the process, she'd begun to gain something even better.


	7. Chapter 6

**_A/N:_**_ So five legitimate drafts of this chapter later, I've decided that 'challenging myself' was the understatement of the century when it comes to this particular story – this has become a real test of my impulsive nature to rush things along. Can't say that I'm completely sure of this update, but no amount of redo's or editing is going to assuage my doubts. So without further ado, enjoy. As always, comments/suggestions/random thoughts are appreciated - and they keep me typing. xoxo_

_p.s. I can officially call myself a 2013 Tough Mudder, so there's that._

* * *

_2am and she calls me cuz I'm still awake, 'can you help me unravel my latest mistake – I don't love him and winter just wasn't my season.'_

Sharon had a problem. Actually, she had more than one – but currently that overwhelming, sometimes infuriating blonde had gone ahead and selfishly interrupted her otherwise calm, routine existence. To be fair, the older woman hadn't exactly stopped her.

Captain Raydor had made a highly successful and lucrative career as the ice queen, ball-busting bitch of FID - surprising most of her family and small circle of friends, considering her kind, often timid, and occasionally awkward demeanor outside of Headquarters. Where Raydor was brash, direct, demanding respect from her fellow officers, Sharon was reserved, slow to trust, but quick to love. And contrary to popular belief among the law community, she didn't snack on babies or sleep in a coffin. She preferred quiet evenings with a good book and a tall glass of California red. As she'd gotten older and perhaps a little more jaded, the brunette became complacent in her routine. One long divorce and a string of less than fulfilling relationships later, she'd resigned herself to solitude. And life, as always, continued on.

Flipping toward her bedside bureau, she noted the time; 4:17am, _perfect_. Quietly, once her eyes had adjusted, she slipped out of bed and headed toward the hallway, grabbing a robe from behind the en-suite door. If Brenda's most recent late night visit wasn't enough, the brunette was currently developing a rather annoying case of insomnia. Naturally, a little early morning cup of tea and catch up with her DVR seemed like the perfect combination to lull her peacefully back to dreamland.

As she mindlessly watched the teapot warming on the stove, the brunette's thoughts drifted to that ridiculous younger woman occupying her guest room, again. Well maybe ridiculous wasn't the word – although Sharon had always struggled when attempting to define the complexity that was Brenda Leigh Johnson. Initially, there'd been equal parts hate and panic surrounding their interactions and shared investigations. The older woman could admit she'd been reduced to childlike antics on more than one occasion, often seeking the comfort of her pockets to assuage the rage threatening to boil over.

Things had changed, shifted slightly, during Brenda's nomination for Chief. Unfortunately, that friendship (if they could even call it that) had been shattered the moment Delk and subsequently Pope ordered a transparency audit during the Goldman fiasco. Those first few months – well Sharon had dreaded getting out of bed, being forced to babysit a group who, for all intents and purposes, hadn't broken any policies or laws and functioned like a well oiled machine. She was an outsider, the dark cloud on an otherwise sunny day. And they'd all made sure to take every opportunity to remind her of just that.

But even during those particularly hostile periods, there was always an undercurrent of something indefinable between the two women, a spark that never seemed to fade. In fact, the Captain swore during their most combative interactions, the magnetic pull grew, intensified. It appeared that as pressure mounted and lines were drawn in the sand, making it painfully obvious who actually supported the current leader of Major Crimes, Sharon and the Deputy Chief silently leaned on each other, needed the other for support. In those moments, it was hard to identify where one ended and the other began. She'd sought solace in those moments, finally feeling like perhaps her purpose was truly recognized by the younger woman – that all her efforts hadn't been in vain.

At first Sharon had been somewhat confused by the host of intense feelings toward the blonde, but never wanting to read too much into things, chalked them up to her protective nature. Having a daughter who'd clawed her way tooth and nail to be noticed, sandwiched between two overachieving brothers, she recognized a lot of those same characteristics in Brenda. And the older woman had been burned, more than once by someone she'd assumed would always be there. It was easy to identify with the flailing woman who'd begun to slowly revert in, soon scared to say too much, mostly for fear of some unidentified leak. But as they'd gotten closer to the truth, and eventually settlement, mere maternal feelings no longer explained away the depth of their relationship.

And now, after these past few days, Sharon had fallen into some sort of alternate universe, nose-diving into uncharted waters, unsure of exactly what Brenda expected from her or why she'd sought comfort here, of all places. It was no secret they'd parted ways soon after Goldman had agreed to drop charges, there wasn't much reason to continue seeing each other on an almost daily basis. As much as Sharon hated to admit it, it'd bothered her a bit. The full 180 they'd done – from blind hatred and fury to almost partners in crime, at least when it came to the lawsuit, was all but erased the moment Peter signed the deal. All that work, the months of tentatively building a foundation of trust and understanding, leveled before the ink had managed to dry. Maybe it hadn't all been in vain, perhaps her efforts didn't go unnoticed; Brenda was here, not with any of the guys, or out drinking herself into a stupor – but here, at Sharon's. Surely that meant something, right?

The blonde awoke with a start. Comfortable mattress aside, she'd tossed and turned for most of the night, unable to control her racing thoughts, unsuccessfully attempting to forget the scene she'd witnessed mere hours before. Rolling over, she blindly reached for her purse, extracting the slightly battered iPhone. Noting the time, 4:38, she began idly scrolling through her inbox. Interestingly enough, not hide nor hair from Fritz. Although the blonde hadn't expected much from him, he'd been pretty wasted and obviously quite comfortable with his new girlfriend. Shutting off the bright screen, Brenda noticed light peeking through the door. Did the Captain really get up this early? Even on Saturdays? Wicked witch jokes aside, it seemed a little far-fetched. But it never hurt, just to make sure…

Sharon heard the pitter patter of feet, half expecting Brenda to be mid sprint toward the door - considering her affinity for leaving, especially when reality set in. Instead the older woman was pleasantly surprised to see a mess of blonde curls, in an oversized t-shirt and shorts she'd borrowed, round the steps and pad slowly toward the kitchen.

"Couldn't sleep," Brenda managed to croak out, not yet fully awake, as she passed the Captain.

"There's hot water on the stove, help yourself to tea." Sharon smiled slightly before returning her attention to the Real Housewives marathon she'd found replaying.

Grabbing a chamomile bag from the counter, the blonde poured a generous amount of water before digging through a few cabinets in search of some honey. Producing an obviously used bottle, she squeezed a hefty dollop of sweetener into the cup. After a few sips, she felt slightly better. Heading back toward the living room, Brenda deposited her mug on the coffee table before settling next to Sharon, making sure to leave an adequate amount of space between them.

"I can't believe you actually watch this," Brenda teased, rolling her eyes at the particularly ridiculous argument the on-screen wives were having.

"Guilty pleasure, I guess," shrugged the older woman. "If these women have all that money and still aren't happy, I figure I'm doing something right."

"Guess it could be worse, you could be watchin' baseball highlights…" Brenda shivered, the early morning chill settling in.

I can't say I've ever really enjoyed a baseball game. A little too slow for my taste," the brunette muttered, absent mindedly tossing half the throw she'd been covered up with toward the younger woman.

"Thanks for sharin', Sharon." Brenda giggled, scooting a bit closer, grabbing for more blanket.

"Hate to disappoint Chief, but that's not the first time I've heard that…"

"I figured," the blonde murmured, poking the older woman with her toe. "But I still think it's funny."

After a few silent minutes, both feigning interest in the drama unfolding on-screen, Sharon tentatively attempted to break the ice. "So, do you want to talk about why you can't sleep?"

"Not really interested in talkin'. How about you Cap'n? Couldn't sleep? Or are you just in the habit of wakin' up at the crack of dawn on the weekends?"

"I guess we're in the same boat," the older woman sighed, turning back toward the screen. As much as Sharon hoped to make some sense of their current predicament, questions practically bubbling over, she couldn't bring herself to push. The blonde would talk eventually, she had to, especially considering she'd yet to make any sort of movement toward the front door. And the Captain vividly remembered those first few days, weeks even, after she'd finally left her ex. No – she wouldn't push.

Brenda awoke to a nagging pain in her neck. Shifting slightly, she was surprised by the warm body under her. It'd been quite some time since she'd felt the presence of another while drifting into conciousness. Slowly opening her eyes, she was momentarily stunned and horrified to find the body in question was in fact, Sharon. At some point, she must have nodded off – either the Captain hadn't minded or, due to some incredible miracle, hadn't noticed. The brunette had also fallen asleep, if her slouched position and light snoring were any indication, leaned against the armrest. And now, even though Brenda was willing her body to move, not wanting to have any awkward conversations about why the blonde had casually dozed off half on top of the other woman (not to mention she hoped she wasn't currently crushing Sharon), she couldn't seem to muster the energy to extract herself from it's half curled position around the brunette. If she hadn't crushed the Captain yet, a few more minutes wouldn't hurt – right?

After a few moments enjoying equal parts warmth and quiet, Brenda could no longer ignore the rather loud rumble of her stomach. Against her better judgment, the Chief hoisted herself to a sitting position and proceeded to lightly shake the older woman.

"Sharon – Sharon, you caught a case. FID just called," the blonde whispered, trying to maintain a serious expression.

"What? Oh, I've got to get going…" The older woman wiped her eyes, not yet fully awake, and started to rise from the couch.

"Relax, I was just kiddin'." Brenda couldn't help but smirk.

"Not funny," deadpanned the older woman, flopping rather ungracefully back onto the couch.

"I dunno, you should have seen your face." The blonde attempted to recreate the look of sheer terror that'd momentarily graced the Captain's face before bursting into a fit of giggles. Sharon rolled her eyes, still clearly less than amused.

"So if I didn't catch a case, why the sudden wake up?"

"I was gettin' bored."Brenda shot her an innocent smile, clearly trying to charm her way back into Sharon's good graces.

"Bored? You were bored? How old are you, 12? There's a television in front of you, books over there…" The older woman gestured toward the shelf in the far corner.

"And maybe a little hungry."

"Ahhh, the truth comes out."

"Well I'm sorry, Cap'n – maybe I didn't want to go rootin' through your kitchen…"

"Pancakes," the brunette definitively stated.

"Pancakes?"

"There's a great place off Vermont, if you're interested. My kids always loved their chocolate chip pancakes, that seems like something you might enjoy…"

"I should probably be headin' home. Daddy always said company starts to stink after a day or so…" Brenda didn't want to leave, not really. But it seemed like the right thing to say. While they'd been tentatively forging this new, whatever you wanted to call it, it was still shaky at best.

"Chi-, Brenda, it's fine."

"I don't wanna go interruptin' your plans, overstayin' my welcome." Brenda looked down, pulling imaginary lint from one of Sharon's pricey looking throw-pillows, unable to meet the Captain's gaze.

"Hey," the older woman grabbed for Brenda's hand, "if I had something planned, you would've been out of here hours ago." Sharon gave her hand a quick squeeze and began to stand, pulling the blonde behind.

"Get dressed, I believe I promised you some pancakes."

"Uhh, Sharon? Could I maybe borrow somethin' to wear…"

20 minutes later, Brenda found herself idly staring out the window as the cars whizzed by. If someone had told her even 24 hours ago that she'd be spending the morning with Sharon Raydor, helping her cope during the very recent desolution of her marriage, she wouldn't have believed it. But here she was. And surprisingly, she felt better. Not great, not by any stretch – but things seemed calm, peaceful even. It was hard to imagine how many months (years really) she'd wasted in a marriage that never quite seemed to fit. They'd had their fair share of incredible moments, moments she'd never forget. But all too quickly things changed and the task of putting their relationship back together appeared more trouble than it'd ever been worth. Both had said too many things tehy couldn't take back, inflicted too much damage on the other. Brenda blinked back the tears suddenly threatening to fall. There was no use crying, not now anyway, she'd have ample time for that.

Glancing over toward Sharon, it was hard not to notice how lovely the older woman was. But perhaps, beyond her looks, it was the Captain's fierce loyalty and kindness that had Brenda's heart doing a funny little flip. Throughout her 47 years, she'd never met anyone quite like the other woman. Someone who seemed more amused than angry when the blonde acted out, who'd put up with her fair share of Brenda's antics and hadn't left, and who'd been privy to every dirty little secret, every professional mistake she'd made and hadn't judged. Besides her Mama and Daddy, she couldn't remember a single soul who'd stuck by her, no questions asked. As much as the blonde hated to admit it, that meant something, something she couldn't seem to put into words.

"Why are you doing this?" Brenda heard the words slipping out, horrified that she'd actually verbalized the doubt that'd been quietly nagging in the back of her head for days.

"Doing what?" Sharon coolly responded, never taking her eyes off the road.

"This," the blonde gestured between them. "Why are you bein' so nice? Lettin' me stay, takin' me for pancakes?"

"Brenda – I like you, always have. Well, maybe not at the beginning…but I've been where you are now and I understand. And I'm worried about you, about you going through this alone."

"So you like me?" The blonde uttered, not incredibly convinced. After all the abject failure in her personal life, it was still rather hard to believe anyone would want to stick around.

"When you aren't waking me up - you're not so bad," Sharon deadpanned.

"Well Cap'n, I'll keep that in mind."

The brunette hummed in response.

Two hours and too many pancakes later, Brenda pulled into her driveway, noting Fritz's unmarked car, trunk open and overflowing with things. Taking a few cleansing breaths, she mentally prepared for whatever fresh hell awaited her inside. Eventually she'd go in, Joel needed to be fed and she desperately needed a shower (and perhaps a glass of wine - 2pm on a Saturday seemed like an ideal time for one tall Merlot), but for now, she wanted to enjoy her last few peaceful moments before WWIII inevitably erupted. Maybe she should've taken the Captain up on her movie offer…

Sharon spent the remainder of her Saturday afternoon catching up with her children and completing the last few triplicates of paperwork she'd put off the previous evening. While things had felt normal, she couldn't seem to shake the worry that'd settled in around the time Brenda pulled out of her driveway, heading home toward whatever crazy awaited. On more then one occasion she'd contemplated calling, but wasn't exactly sure what to say - or how well the other woman would take her incessant desire to check in. Around 8, the brunette caved, in text form. But everyone texted these days right? As a friend (pseudo friend anyway), wasn't it her job to make sure the younger woman hadn't gone off the deep end, especially considering the circumstances surrounding their last interaction?

Brenda heard her phone chime, signaling a new text message.

_From: Capt Raydor_

_Everything okay at home?_

The older woman was surprised when her phone buzzed almost immediately. Perhaps things were quiet at the Johnson residence?

_From: Chief Johnson_

_Joel and I are just sitting and watching a movie – Fritz was moving stuff out when I got home._

Oh wow - apparently Agent Howard wasn't wasting any time. Unsure of exactly how to respond, in case Brenda was feeling fragile, Sharon typed out a short response.

_From: Capt Raydor_

_Well if you need anything, I'm here. Have a good weekend._

_From: Chief Johnson_

_Thanks Sharon, for everything._

Brenda couldn't sleep, again. She'd spent the last few hours packing up the remainder of Fritz's clothes and variety of knick-knacks, attempting to assuage her anger at their current predicament. Naturally it'd seemed that throwing his things in trash bags might help, unfortunately she'd been seriously mistaken. Seeing all those things they'd amassed during their relationship, it'd only added fuel to the fire. Why had they ever gotten married? She'd been more than clear about exactly who she was and what she'd wanted from her life, their life together. Had he really expected her to change so drastically? To suddenly desire a home in the suburbs and 2.5 children? Eventually she'd transitioned from blind fury to a weepy mess, releasing all that pent up disappointment. Maybe she could have tried harder, gave a bit more – perhaps he would have stuck around. Two failed marriages later, well it was hard to imagine it wasn't all her fault.

Slowly she managed to pull herself together amid the pity party she'd created on their closet floor – surrounded by Fritz's things and a half empty bottle of wine. Glancing over toward the clock, she noted the time – 2:04. Before her higher level brain functioning had time to register the action, she'd grabbed for her phone and pushed the contact that was slowly beginning to overtake her recent calls list. By the second ring, Brenda realized how incredibly impulsive and presumptious this was, but she was far past caring.

"Captain Raydor," husked the older woman – obviously she'd been asleep.

"I'm sorry Sharon," the blonde muttered meakly, trying to stifle a sob. Perhaps this wasn't her best decision. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Brenda? Is everything okay?" Sharon reached blindly for her bedside lamp, flicking on the light in one swift motion.

"I just- I guess- I dunno. I'm not really sure what I'm feelin'." The blonde let out an audible sigh, burying her face in her hands. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called."

"Brenda, it's fine."

"I was packin' up the last of Fritz's things and I just kinda realized," she struggled for the words, not quite ready to verbalize the situation, "it's over. We're over." Her voice cracked, unable to hold back the tears bubbling over.

Unsure of how to proceed, and frankly unwilling to continue this conversation without at least some confirmation that the blonde wasn't currently drinking herself to death or two ho-ho's away from a diabetic coma, Sharon decided to take a chance. "Brenda, why don't you come over? You can bring Joel if you want. I think a change of scenery might help…"

"Sharon, it's fine - I'm fine. I was just feelin' a little sad, that's all." The blonde took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down.

"Just come over, please?" Sharon couldn't help the desperation in her voice, but she was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to protect the flailing younger woman, to make things just a little bit better. If she wouldn't come over, well the brunette wasn't above driving there and knocking down her door. She needed to know Brenda was okay.

"Alright Sharon, I'll see you soon."


	8. Chapter 7

_'you were finished long before we had even seen the start - why don't you stand up, be a man about it? fight with your bare hands about it now? i never wanted to say this, you never wanted to stay, well did you? i put my faith in you, so much faith, and you just threw it away.'_

Brenda idly swirled the red liquid in her glass, chuckling darkly at the familiarity of her current position – equal parts lonely and rather buzzed on cheap Merlot. Exactly one week ago, Captain Raydor had found her drunk, a little depressed, and very much alone outside that now infamous bar. Looking back, it was hard to deny how things had gradually shifted. In a few short days _that woman _had seamlessly transitioned from a tolerable dark figure to (dare she say it) rather loyal ally. Her worst nightmare had somehow become the only thing she seemed to count on these days, experiencing first hand the brunette's unwavering devotion amid Brenda's overwhelming personal pain.

Of course she'd experienced Sharon's allegiance, in a professional capacity, during Goldman's lawsuit. As a commanding officer (and a woman in a male dominated profession), the blonde had assumed the older woman merely wanted to close her case, protect the LAPD as a whole, as well as her own ass from the likes of one smarmy Peter Goldman. The Captain was assigned the task of helping clear Brenda's name and she'd done just that, most likely securing even more respect from the brass then her rule loving self already possessed. At some point, the younger woman had realized the brunette wasn't working against her – now she couldn't comprehend why that faithfulness would extend beyond settlement.

Of course it was comforting, to an extent, knowing she had somewhere to turn. Surprising Brenda most of all, she actually enjoyed the brunette's company. Sharon had a keen ability to know exactly what the Chief needed to hear, even if it wasn't pleasant or particularly welcomed at first. But she'd been down this road, too many times to count – Mama, Fritz, her ex-husband, all of whom had left, in one way or another. It was hard not to continue to assume the worst, fear that the bottom would once again drop and the Captain wouldn't do the same. Especially considering their most recent interaction.

Across town, Fritz eased back in the rather uncomfortable, fold down metal chair, placing a half-full Styrofoam cup of coffee at his feet. Clearing his throat and nervously running a hand through his hair, the Agent began. "I'm Fritz and I'm an alcoholic."

A chorus of _Hi Fritz_'s met his confession.

Letting out an uneasy laugh, he continued, "today is, it's - well I'm one day sober I guess. And I can't believe I'm right back where I started. Today I made a pretty big mistake while I was still a little buzzed from last night. And now I don't know how to fix it, or if I want to…"

* * *

An early morning case was nothing new; years of experience had hardened the blonde. Minimal sleep and an over demanding team of FBI Agents had never rattled her, but this Monday was different. She hadn't seen nor spoken to one particular Agent since he'd moved out (well, moved the essentials out). Now being forced to share an investigation with the man who'd effectively run roughshod over her heart – it was more than one tired and overly emotional Brenda Leigh Johnson could handle.

It'd only taken a casual slip of the tongue from Fritz. They'd been huddled in a corner, no one within earshot, while their respective teams fluttered around attempting not to get in the other's way. _'Chief Johnson, you and I both know this is the FBI's case – we'll be more than happy to surrender our evidence, you don't have to be such a bitch about it.' _

That was all it took for Brenda's already shaky self-control to snap, unleashing a tidal wave of pent-up frustration and anger. As if their home life wasn't a wreck, now Agent Howard had gone ahead and tried to put her down again, shatter the tiny bit of self-worth she'd been clinging onto, during business hours nonetheless. There had always been a silent agreement between the two – no matter what happened outside LAPD Headquarters, neither was willing to compromise their job or professional reputation by allowing their personal issues into the work environment. But Fritz had once again changed the game. He obviously now felt entitled to rub her face in their issues, belittle her in front of God knows who, throwing any chance of maintaining a positive office relationship out the window. And once she'd started into him, well it'd been nearly impossible to stop the tornado of emotions she'd been swallowing for so long. Faces merely centimeters apart, the blonde raged – letting him know in no uncertain terms how selfish _he'd_ been. No longer caring who knew about his infidelity, the drinking, and all those other mistakes she'd allowed for so long.

Sharon looked down, unable to hide the smirk threatening to grace her features as Will relayed the rational behind her new assignment. As horribly unprofessional as Brenda's early morning outburst sounded, the brunette had no doubt Fritz deserved everything he'd had coming and more. Shifting slightly in the seat, the Captain took a moment to compose herself before meeting Will's gaze. "Just so we're clear, Chief – you'd once again like me to waste my time and the department's money running interference between Chief Johnson and now, Agent Howard?"

"That is correct, Captain," he nodded, unsuccessfully hiding the irritation at her constant need to second-guess his orders.

"Sir, I believe we've been down this road before. And while I now consider the Goldman suit a professional victory, I'm no marriage counselor _or_ babysitter. I've given decades of my life to the LAPD and expect to be taken seriously." Sharon ran a hand through her hair, settling back in the chair. While she was relieved Pope had picked her over say, Elliot, or any number of other officers who weren't quite so familiar with the inner-workings of Major Crimes – the brunette couldn't help but feel a slight bit of disappointment. Personally, she'd been making real progress, forming a budding friendship with Chief Johnson. Professionally, she knew the younger woman took serious offense when her investigations or tactics were questioned. It would be almost impossible now to continue to maintain, well, whatever they'd started over the past week. It was nice being needed – and if the brunette was honest, she'd begun to question her rigid rules surrounding personal relationships. Maybe she needed a friend too? It'd only taken a few days for the younger woman to weasel her way into Sharon's home, and somewhere along the way – the Captain's heart. But the brunette, ever the realist, knew hovering in that murder room, obviously babysitting…there was almost zero chance Brenda would want anything to do with her afterward.

"Consider this assignment as me taking your abilities very seriously, Captain. Look – there are few people Chief Johnson actually listens to, even less she respects. For whatever reason, God knows why, she takes your advice seriously. We've literally got no one else even remotely qualified – I can't have her waging an all out war with the FBI. Until whatever problems between the Chief and Agent Howard are dealt with, I need you aiding Major Crimes in all cases that overlap with the Bureau."

"And what do I tell her? The woman is former CIA, she's going to figure out something's up – considering there are no open use of force investigations occurring in Major Crimes."

"Well that's not exactly accurate. FID might not have an open case, but Professional Standards may soon find themselves with one…" Lifting a single paper from atop a stack of files, Will pushed the sheet across his desk toward the brunette.

"So Agent Howard has filed a formal grievance?" The Captain began perusing the scathing complaint. '_Demonstrates an inability to work well with others, refuses to respect the correct chain of command…_' Apparently the Agent wasn't playing around, he'd all but slaughtered her character in a few short paragraphs. There wasn't much coming back from this handful of ridiculous accusations. And Sharon had a sneaking suspicion once the blonde got her hands on this document; well soon she'd really be investigating the Chief for excessive use of force. Maybe the brunette could get in a few cheap shots too?

"He's yet to formally file – consider this a documented warning. I managed to talk him off the ledge by guaranteeing your presence over the next few weeks."

Sharon let out a hum, "How thoughtful of you."

"Look, I realize this situation isn't ideal. But the department and this city cannot lose Chief Johnson, especially on the heels of her federal settlement. You and I both know how much of an asset she is to Major Crimes…" Pope couldn't help but sigh, Brenda Leigh Johnson's professional antics would put him in an early grave – he could see it now.

"And you're speaking solely as her superior officer?"

"And her friend, Captain. We can all agree that perhaps I didn't handle the Goldman lawsuit very well. Hopefully helping protect Chief Johnson from any further investigations…"

"Will get you back in her good graces, sir?"

"Something like that."

"Well Chief," she nodded curtly, "I'll do what I can."

As the elevator doors opened on the 9th floor, Sharon clipped toward the murder room. Quietly entering, the brunette took a moment to scan each officer's location. Tao and Buzz were huddled in their corner, replaying security footage from what appeared to be a drive thru. Sánchez was at his desk, scrolling through a variety of mug shots on his computer screen. Gabriel and Flynn were nowhere to be found while Provenza was arranging the crime scene on the white board.

"Something we can help you with, Captain?" Provenza inquired, refusing to turn. He never had much desire to acknowledge the older woman's presence; it wasn't ever a good day when the wicked witch graced their halls.

"Just looking for Chief Johnson," she politely responded. Glancing toward the office, the brunette saw Brenda hunched over her desk, half eaten ding-dong in hand. Briskly walking toward the door, she knocked - not actually waiting for a response before ducking inside.

"Hey Sharon," Brenda muttered, never looking up, but motioning for the older woman to sit. "What can I do for you?"

"Just don't get upset, not yet" the brunette replied, plucking the complaint from a file before sliding it toward the younger woman.

Brenda sat back, teeth worrying her lower lip, and began to read. While this morning's display hadn't been her finest hour, the blonde never expected Fritz to actually pursue a formal Professional Standards investigation. This wasn't the man she knew, or thought she knew anyway – who'd held her as she broke down after finding Mama, bought her Joel once she'd been forced to put down Kitty, helped her through one of her worst years, professionally. No, this wasn't that man at all. This was the shell of someone she'd thought would love her forever, flaws and all. Even as she contemplated separation, the blonde wouldn't have ever pictured things ending quite so bitterly. And it hurt, finally realizing there would be no graceful or dignified way out of their marriage. She was now in for the fight of her life – and professional reputation. Fritz knew how much the wrongful death suit had rattled her, making her question every single decision she'd ever made, every confession she'd ever acquired, and he'd still gone ahead and reopened an inquiry into her behavior.

Now the blonde's only question was _why_. Beyond the obvious (make her suffer), Agent Howard wasn't gaining anything by demolishing her reputation in the LAPD community. In fact, he was digging his own grave. With complaints came questions, interviews of friends and co-workers, possibly trials – Fritz would most likely be forced to sit on that stand and air all their dirty laundry, all those little secrets would come to light. If he was willing to open their personal lives for public scrutiny, the blonde had no qualms about sharing all those things he'd told her in confidence. Additionally, perhaps a little birdie would tip-off his supervisors that he'd fallen off the wagon, if things got bad enough.

Slowly Brenda drifted back, suddenly aware the brunette was speaking to her.

"…So Chief Pope thinks it's in everyone's best interest that we handle the FBI together when cases overlap."

"We? Y'all are saddling me with another set of handlers?" Brenda huffed; drawl becoming more pronounced as the anger surfaced. "Honestly _Cap'n_," she seethed, "I've done nothing wrong. And why is Pope assignin' you this anyway? My gun's still in its holster – although I can't guarantee you won't be investigatin' me once I see Agent Howard…"

"_That, _Chief – That's exactly why I'm here." Sharon felt the shift in their relationship, the tension in the room suddenly palpable. Swallowing back the overwhelming desire to beg Brenda to just trust her, allow the brunette a chance to let the system work this out, she needed this interaction to remain professional. "Look, Fritz hasn't formally filed yet. We've still got time to correct this misunderstanding before it actually becomes a part of your permanent record…"

"We've still got time? You mean you've still got time. You and I both know the only reason you're pretendin' to work with me is because if Goldman gets wind of this…"

"After all this time, you really think I'm still working against you?"

"I'm sorry, Cap'n – I don't ever remember a time when you weren't working against my team…" Brenda immediately regretted the words, but it was too late. And perhaps she was feeling a little too fragile to care if she hurt the older woman. While she'd been nothing but kind and supportive over the past few days, it was hard to completely forget all those time Sharon had attempted to thwart her progress, questioning her tactics at every turn.

"Fine Cap'n, I'll do whatever you need me to," the blonde clipped as she looked down, resuming her inspection of the crime scene photos. "If you've got nothin' else for me, feel free to let yourself out," Brenda added.

Now sitting at the kitchen table, the younger woman could no longer deny that her own selfish behavior had most likely ruined any hope of finding an ally in Sharon Raydor. Staring down the barrel of yet another (still unofficial, for now) ethic's inquiry, Brenda had an overwhelming desire to call the one person who'd shown her nothing but kindness - but she'd shown the brunette her true colors, she was once again painfully alone.

Sharon had been staring at the cakes in the bakery department for the better part of ten minutes. To say she'd been hurt by Brenda's reaction earlier – well, that was a severe understatement. Honestly, there weren't words for the host of emotions she'd been experiencing over the past few hours. First she'd been angry. After the past week, the brunette had hoped that the younger woman trusted her enough to know Sharon would never do something to purposely hurt her. Short of standing on her head, she'd proved time and time again that she'd always be there, no judgment or questions asked. Anger had eventually transitioned to panic. Now that Brenda had effectively removed the older woman from her life, who would she turn to when things got hard? Well that was easy, either a case of ding-dongs or a few bottles of Merlot. Maybe she'd run back into the arms of Agent Howard? Find another man? None of those options seemed particularly healthy or productive, which led her to a current place of desperation.

For the most part, Sharon fancied herself a strong, independent woman. The type of woman who didn't need anyone to validate her existence, make her feel important. Somewhere along the way, however, she'd forgotten how incredible it felt to be needed – and to need someone in return. In a week's time, for reasons she couldn't quite understand, Brenda had become an essential part of the older woman's life. The brunette could no longer imagine just sitting on her hands while the Chief plummeted further down, spiraling out of control. Becoming privy to all the facets of Brenda Leigh Johnson, including the little nuances and quirks rarely seen during office hours, she couldn't pretend their tentative friendship hadn't ever happened. Sharon refused to go back to the distant, almost cold, professional tolerance. No – she'd swallow her pride, put on a brave face, and hope for the opportunity to explain things. Once Brenda had a chance to calm down, maybe she'd realize the brunette was merely trying to help. Grabbing for a half chocolate cake with chocolate icing, Sharon shot up a silent prayer that the younger woman would give her a chance to explain – and offer her a piece of cake, considering it looked incredible.

20 minutes later, the blonde found one very small looking Sharon outside her front door.

"I brought cake," the older woman muttered, holding up the confection. "Figured it was a better peace-offering than flowers…"

Brenda fought the sudden urge to launch herself into the brunette's arms. How did Sharon always know "I was just thinkin' about callin' you," she confessed, waving her arm and motioning for the other woman to come inside.

"I hope this is okay, me just showing up," the Captain added as they both headed toward the kitchen.

"It's more than okay, Sharon." Depositing the cake on the kitchen table, Brenda retrieved two plates and some forks before settling across from the brunette.

"I just wanted a chance to explain earlier today. I know you're upset…"

"I'm sorry about today," Brenda interrupted, not giving the older woman anymore time to explain away the blonde's atrocious behavior. "I was angry at Fritz and I took it out on you. You've been nothing but a good friend, you didn't deserve all the nasty things I said." Without thinking, she reached across the table and took the Captain's hand in her own. "Really Sharon, I'm not sure what I'd do without you," she nervously laughed, lacing their fingers together and squeezing lightly.

_A/N: got my first big girl job actually using my degree (at an inpatient rehab, oh irony), my bad for the lag. thanks again for all the comments and support, it's great to hear what you guys are enjoying and it keeps me typing after evening shifts! xoxo_


	9. Chapter 8

**Trigger Warning: Depiction of domestic violence, drinking and driving**

**Chapter Rating: M (for dark subject matter)**

**A/N**: This is going to get dark, please be careful & make sure you're in a good head space – in all seriousness, this is about as intense as I'll ever get with this story. Additionally, I'd like to stress that this will never delve into the domestic violence realm. All that being said, I still felt the warning was necessary considering the fact that certain events push the envelope and that last thing I want on my conscience is someone being triggered. This was a difficult chapter to write, I hope I've treated the matter in a respectful but true-to-life way. In light of this chapter and recent events in the media, if you or someone you know is struggling...

**National Drug Information, Treatment, and Referral Hotline: 800-662-HELP**

**National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-SAFE**

**Alcohol Abuse and Crisis Intervention Hotline: 800-234-0246**

* * *

_"leave unsaid, unspoken_

_eyes wide shut, unopened_

_you and me, always be, between the lines."_

Fritz ducked silently out of the meeting while everyone circled for the Serenity Prayer. Perhaps sobriety wasn't all it was cracked up to be? Initially he'd felt better, sharing the intimate details behind his most recent fall off the wagon with a community who'd also experienced its fair share of relapse. But honestly, the Special Agent was tired of feeling different. Now that he was free do whatever he pleased, when he wanted, without having to answer to anyone, there wasn't much reason he could figure to dissuade him from enjoying the occasional drink with the new woman in his life (or his FBI buddies after work). And while they hadn't exactly made plans this evening, he was hoping she'd be free before his undercover detail early tomorrow. Until then, he'd wait downtown – maybe get in a few rounds of pool or a couple of games of darts before the restaurant cut her shift.

"So what do I do," the blonde tentatively inquired, refusing to glance up and meet Sharon's gaze. Instead she focused solely on spearing the last few cake crumbs with her fork. While they'd cleared the air, the younger woman couldn't quite shake the feeling that her insensitive, impulsive actions had possibly done irreconcilable damage to their budding friendship. Normally the Chief's uncanny ability to infuriate those closest to her wasn't too upsetting, she certainly didn't lose sleep over it. But with Sharon everything seemed different. Had the brunette not shown up on her doorstep, well Brenda had seriously debated driving over and firmly planting herself on the older woman's front porch until they'd worked it out. She'd never admit it out loud, but the blonde had slowly been losing her mind over the fact that she'd possibly lost Sharon – and honestly, it scared the shit out of her. After the last few months of heartache, Brenda finally felt she'd gotten to a place of comfortable solitude. Well maybe not comfortable, but the blonde had resigned herself to a life alone. Without too many close relationships, there wasn't much chance of getting hurt, of someone leaving. Then Sharon had ever so slowly nudged her way into the Chief's life, challenging the notion that life was best spent alone.

"How am I supposed to work with him? Knowin' he's just lookin' for a way to get me fired," she practically whispered, feeling raw, a bit exposed, silently praying that Fritz wouldn't make things even worse. "I can't just pretend…"

"Brenda, I'm not asking you to pretend," Sharon sighed. "You need to keep things brief, civil – limit your interactions to LAPD matters _only_."

The blonde responded with a sad laugh, shaking her head at how quickly this mess had bled into her usually impenetrable work environment. Agent Howard knew a great deal about her, things she'd never imagined he'd consider exposing, all those little weak spots and personal shortcomings. But now, it was hard to trust he'd keep anything in confidence – apparently ruining her professional reputation outweighed good judgment or any sense of loyalty, respect for the happier years they spent together.

"Hey – I'm on your side. It's okay, we'll work this mess out, just trust me." The older woman punctuated her words with a light squeeze to Brenda's hand.

Well of course the blonde trusted Sharon, after all they'd been through – Goldman, Ann, Pope, and that was merely scratching the surface. Honestly, at this point, the Captain could announce the sky was actually red or fish really walked on land and Brenda wouldn't bat an eye before placing her full trust in the older woman's claims. So she'd step back, allow the system to work (perhaps also allow the brunette to work the system), and attempt to wait patiently, calmly, for things to blow over.

Sharon looked up, noting the time on the microwave. Cake finished and apologies out-of-the-way – well she didn't want to overstay her welcome. Even though the blonde had assured her they'd fixed their recent miscommunication, things still felt a little forced, fake even. For once, she wasn't quite able to read the younger woman; an ability she'd come to rely on during recent months when all else failed. And she just looked so incredibly sad. It took all the strength Sharon could muster to not jump the table and wrap the blonde in her arms, convince her things would be okay, there was light at the end if this ridiculously long, dark tunnel. Maybe they needed distance?

"Well thanks for sharing the cake, Brenda," the brunette scooped up her dish and headed toward the sink. "I should probably be getting home…"

"You're leavin' already?" The younger woman hadn't meant for that to sound so desperate.

"I haven't been home yet. I'd intended to stop by the store for dinner...but got a little sidetracked at the bakery," Sharon grinned. And for the first time, in all their years of professional interaction, Brenda was given the rare opportunity to see a genuine smile from the other women - it took her breath away. It was something so simple, beautiful, the way the brunette's eyes twinkled, those small lines became more pronounced. That little glimpse of the real Sharon, the woman normally hidden firmly behind her Captain Raydor mask, she was someone Brenda wouldn't mind seeing a smile from everyday.

"Why don't you stay? I know you're awful fond of the rules, but dessert before dinner never hurt anyone. We could order some Chinese, watch a movie, bitch about Taylor givin' that terrible briefin' to the media last week."

"I'd love to," Sharon politely responded, knowing full well she'd never actually say no, not when it came to the Deputy Chief. Who really needed distance anyway?

Fritz swerved into the driveway, hardly noticing the Captain's Crown Vic a few hundred yards away. Stumbling out of the car, he tripped up the sidewalk, careening ungracefully toward the door. Perhaps that fourth jack and coke hadn't been the best idea? Fumbling with the keys, he was surprised to find the blonde had recently changed the lock – his set would no longer turn the deadbolt. _Perfect, just perfect. Because Brenda Leigh Johnson hadn't ruined his life enough…_

The blonde swore she heard the doorbell ring, but glancing over at an unflinching Sharon, assumed it was maybe just part of whatever awful movie the older woman had vowed she'd enjoy. Unfortunately the Chief couldn't seem to get past the female lead losing all memory in a horrible accident, but somehow still having a desire to regain those fuzzy recollections. It seemed a little far-fetched, to say the least. While she'd never hope for tragedy, she wouldn't mind a little situational amnesia now and then. And there was the bell again...odd, it was a little before 11 – not exactly prime time for house guests. Perhaps she'd caught a case and Gabriel stopped in route? But her phone hadn't rang.

"Are you expecting someone, Brenda? I can get going…" The older woman slowly started to hoist herself up, smoothing the lines of her pants as she stood.

"No! No Sharon, stay, finish the movie. I'll be right back, someone must be mixin' up my house with the neighbors."

As Brenda headed toward the door, the Captain let out a breath she'd been holding. While the brunette felt safe in her surroundings, it was hard to simply undue decades of police training and this late night visitor had immediately put her on high alert. Midnight guests, no matter how innocent they appeared, were always cause for a bit of alarm. Quickly she scanned the living room, noting the location of her purse (which currently housed her side arm) and the back door – just in case. While she knew there probably no reason for alarm, it was always best to be safe.

Sliding the peephole cover up, Brenda let out an audible sigh. _Fuck._

"Brenda, I know you're in there. Let me in, we need to talk," he slurred before stumbling over, more than a little intoxicated. "I saw light in the peephole, I know you're there…"

Taking a final cleansing breath, she turned the deadbolt and cracked the door, bracing it with her weight to prevent him from entering. "Fritz, now's not a good time," she seethed. "Maybe you could come back tomorrow, when you're feelin' better. " _When you're feeling less drunk _is what she'd wanted to say. But she knew from years of interrogation experience, angering someone with minimal control on their inhibitions would most likely end in a knock-down drag out – and it'd been such a lovely evening till now.

"Oh I'm feeling _just fine_, Brenda Leigh. In fact, I'm feeling better than I've felt in months, well years really."

"Brenda – is everything okay?" Sharon called, rounding the corner. Hearing raised voices, her body had instinctively reacted before giving her brain time to catch up – propelling her almost automatically toward the blonde's distressed tone.

"Is that Captain Raydor?" Fritz was surprised to hear the older woman's distinct voice. So they were friends now? It was rather hard to believe - but stranger things had happened, he guessed.

"We're fine, Sharon," the blonde lied, opening the door and ushering Fritz inside. Looking back, that'd been her first mistake. She'd been too preoccupied with convincing the older woman that everything was okay, she'd neglected to keep a very intoxicated Agent Howard at arm's length. "I'll be back in two shakes, Fritzie just needed a few things he forgot." Grabbing the man by the arm, she led him unceremoniously upstairs toward the master bedroom. Once they'd crossed the threshold, she slammed the door, turning to face him. "What are you doin' here?! You can't just show up, drunk, hollerin' about how we need to talk."

"You changed the locks," the Agent deadpanned, trying to maintain composure as the alcohol coursed through, inhibiting almost any chance of self-control.

"Well of course I changed the locks. You made it pretty clear how you felt about us, about this marriage, fallin' into bed with someone else."

"This is my house too, Brenda – you can't just…" He stumbled, faltered on his feet, but caught himself before he managed to crash into the bureau.

"_Was_ your house, was," she spat. "And why are you here, anyway? I'm havin' a hard time believin' it's cuz I changed the locks. Considerin' you couldn't have figured that out till now."

Fritz's head was spinning. At some point he remembered having a reason for coming over, but now was hard pressed to figure out exactly what it'd been. Now he found himself equal parts angry and exhausted. He'd never be able to forgive the blonde, who obviously had already begun to move on, reorganizing her life without him in it. That hadn't exactly been the scenario he'd imagined. In fact, he would've bet a pretty penny on her crashing and burning, life spiraling spectacularly out of control once she'd realized he wasn't coming back. Did she not see how important he was to her very existence? Had all those little things he'd taken care of, all the sacrifices he'd made, had they really meant nothing? Shifting gears, he suddenly remembered the quick exchange the two women had made downstairs. The blonde had told Sharon he was simply there to collect things he'd forgotten – she was already running around the LAPD, telling even her arch-nemesis the state of their relationship? What was next, getting back together with Pope? Well that was something he just wouldn't stand for…

"So you're telling people," he snarled, challenging her with a piercing glare.

"Tellin' people what?" Brenda was having a hard time following his swift transition and an even harder time keeping eye contact, considering the man couldn't seem to focus for more than a few moments.

"About us, about this," he indicated.

"I hardly think talkin' to Sharon about our split - "

"So you_ are_ telling people! Who's next, Will Pope? Or maybe Flynn? I hear he's always had a thing for you…" Fritz could no longer hold it together. If the blonde thought for one moment he'd allow her to drag his name through the gutter, disrespect him; turn him into the laughing-stock of the FBI by getting back together with Will Pope. Well, she had another thing coming.

"What are you talking about? I'm not gettin' together with anyone. And even if I were, it wouldn't be any of your business. Especially considerin' your eye's been wanderin' for far longer then mine."The blonde crossed her arms in defiance, settling back on her hip.

"You know what Brenda, fuck you."

"Oh that's real mature," she snickered, unable to hold back a rather pronounced eye-roll.

"No – you know what's mature? Respecting the people who care about you. Thinking of anyone, anyone besides you first. That's mature."

"So instead of sayin' you're unhappy, maybe givin' me a heads up – you go out and sleep with someone else," she choked out the last bit. And that, that's what hurt the most. Knowing instead of simply being honest, telling her how neglected he'd apparently felt, he ran off and left her to pick up the pieces, alone. Just like everyone else she'd loved, he left. Never giving her the opportunity to fix things, or at least understand how they'd broken so spectacularly. But no - she wouldn't let him see her cry; she'd shed far too many tears on this relationship. "'Cuz that's so mature." Taking a deep breath, the blonde swiped at her eyes. "I want you out, now. You made your bed, Fritz Howard, the day you decided to fall into someone else's. I'm sure she's a real catch, hope you two are real happy together…"

"Shut up, Brenda - you know nothing about her, about what we have."

"I know one thing, if she's just fine with you cheatin' on me – it's only a matter of time before she'll cheat on you," she smirked darkly, more than aware of the ground she was slowly regaining in this argument. "Remember, I was the other woman once too." Once the words left her mouth, the blonde saw the immediate shift in the Agent's demeanor. She'd meant to inflict as much damage as possible, hit his weak spot, that constant doubt that one day she'd fall back into the arms of Will Pope.

Everything went black, rage overtaking any good judgment Fritz had been hopelessly clinging to. Before he'd registered the action, the Agent was grabbing for a lamp, ripping the cord out of the wall socket and hurling it toward the blonde's general direction. Brenda ducked out of instinct as the light shattered against the wall. Time suddenly slowed, glass rained down over the woman, slicing into her palm as she attempted to protect her face. Then things went hazy, fuzzy around the edges. At some point Sharon burst into the room, voice raised, demanding Fritz get out before she called for backup. Scooping up the shaken blonde in her arms, Brenda felt the older woman tightly wrap her hand before gently guiding her toward the car. Once she'd deposited the blonde in the passenger seat, Sharon started the car and headed toward the highway. After a few minutes, Brenda slowly began to orient back to the present.

"Where are we going?"

"Hospital – you're probably going to need stitches," she clipped, eyes still focused on the road.

"Oh no, no Sharon, that won't be necessary. I'm just fine. I'll wrap it up in some gauze, it'll be as good as new come morning."

"No, we're going. You need to have that looked at, you're bleeding pretty bad."

"I promise, I'll be fine…"

"Brenda, stop. We're going."

They were silent for the rest of the ride, hardly speaking while they sat in the Emergency Room's waiting area. Thankfully, it was a rather slow night and they were almost immediately rushed back from the triage with a quick flash of Sharon's badge.

As Brenda's legs swung freely off the exam table, she finally felt ready to break the self-imposed silence. "What do I tell them?" The blonde practically whispered, refusing to meet the Captain's eye, focusing instead on the dots scattered across the linoleum. "This really wasn't necessary, Captain. I'm completely fine."

Sharon noticed the sudden reversal back to rank, knowing the younger woman was attempting to assert what little power she could over a situation that was obviously causing her immense pain. "Brenda, you're hand's still bleeding. We both know you need stitches." Looking up to face the younger woman, she could see the dread, the embarrassment, the fear, even if she refused to look at her - Sharon knew that feeling all too well, although it'd been some time since the dissolution of her own marriage. After a few tense moments, the brunette let out an audible sigh. "We were washing dishes after the movie – I handed you one, it slipped."

"But that's not what…"

"I understand, probably better than you think. But you need to promise that's it, no more letting him back in," Sharon demanded, enunciating every word to convey how serious she was. "I know he's not normally like that, it's the alcohol. But as long as he's drinking, you've got to be smart. You need to promise you'll lock your door, pretend you aren't home, call me if he comes knocking."

"I promise."Brenda didn't need to promise however, there was no chance Fritz Howard would ever be making another appearance in her life, drunk or otherwise, again. She'd heard of women, one's who took the guy back, or excused this kind of erratic, horrible behavior as simply an accident or a result of their own nagging. And yes, alcohol could drastically alter a person's disposition. But Brenda was not that woman - there was no excuse, mind-alerted or not, that would force her to believe for one second Fritz deserved another chance. They'd both contributed to the demise of this marriage, there was no denying that. But regardless of all the wrong she'd done, he had no right, none, to come waltzing up to her door, belittling her character, accusing her of sins she'd never committed. Obviously whatever inner turmoil the Agent was experiencing, it went much deeper than the blonde. This was a road he needed to walk down alone, Brenda refused to continue to live her life at the mercy of her estranged, drunk husband.

"I'm holding you to that, Chief," the older woman stated sternly before adding, "and we'll meet with Chief Pope tomorrow? Discuss how to proceed?"

Brenda nodded, suddenly overwhelming grateful Sharon had stayed.

Two numbing shots, seven stitches, and a rather large pain pill later, Brenda was exhausted and more than a little loopy. Thankfully the Captain had wordlessly volunteered to help the younger woman into the house, taking care to minimize using her injured hand. Once she'd settled the blonde in bed, assembling a pseudo command post of two bottles of water, a few Advil, and her iPhone on the bedside table, Sharon went about quickly vacuuming the broken glass strewn across the bedroom floor. Satisfied with the hasty, but thorough job, hoping to avoid another possible hazardous situation for Brenda, the brunette glanced down at her watch, _1:37_.

"Well it's getting late, I'm going to head home…"she called, grabbing for her purse and keys.

Even in her hazy state, the blonde suddenly felt incredibly overwhelmed by the prospect of sleeping alone. The house felt too big, as if it'd swallow her whole the moment Sharon walked out the front door. She couldn't leave, not now, not when there was still possibly glass on the carpet, drops of blood staining her floor, making this entire evening terrifyingly real – instead of just some nightmare she'd eventually wake from. Brenda couldn't face this alone, not yet.

"Sharon," she choked out, fighting back a sob. "Sharon, please – I need, I, please stay."

"Okay," she slowly enunciated.

"I'm sorry, I know it's askin' a lot, but I don't want to be here alone…"

"Brenda, it's fine, I'm not going anywhere," the Captain sighed. "Let me just go grab my emergency bag in the car."

Sharon hadn't exactly asked for clarification as to where she was supposed to sleep and the blonde hadn't given any indication. Face washed and teeth brushed, the sweatpants and old t-shirt clad Captain settled next to the younger woman, who appeared rather enthralled in an episode of _House Hunters: International_. When Brenda didn't protest her presence, the brunette resigned herself to bunking with the Chief for the remainder of the evening (well, morning). Hopefully she wasn't a bed hog, or a cover hog, the older woman was hoping for at least a few hours of quality rest.

Rolling toward the wall, Sharon closed her eyes and attempted to focus solely on evening out her breaths, willing herself toward sleep that was probably hours away. She heard the blonde click off the television and felt a slight weight shift as Brenda reached to flick off the bedside lamp. Occasionally she felt the younger woman turn, apparently equally restless.

The events of the last few hours hit Brenda like an 18-wheeler - overwhelming, all-consuming. All those doubts, the fears she'd bottled up, pushed aside amid the anger directed solely at that FBI Agent. This was it, their breaking point, the bottom had unceremoniously dropped. It was startlingly, suddenly, officially over; there was no turning back. At yet here she was, still breathing, with the brunette by her side. Her presence alone was humbling, the fact that Sharon continued to stick around, for reasons she couldn't even begin to fathom. And with each passing day, she looked a little more to the older woman for wordless support, un-judgmental understanding - the thought of ever losing Sharon was terrifying. But keeping her close would eventually lead to nothing but heartache. The hopelessness of it all was shocking and she could no longer hold back a sob.

Sharon heard the cry, heart breaking for the younger woman. Without thinking, she flipped toward the blonde, reaching out her arms and pulling the smaller woman close. Brenda rolled even closer, burying her face in a curtain of brown hair. Resting her chin in the crook of Sharon's neck, she sobbed.

"Shhh - I'm right here Brenda Leigh, I'm not going anywhere," the brunette husked, gently tucking back a stray lock of blonde hair.


End file.
